


a taste of freedom and sweetened passion

by tomlinvelvet



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alpha Harry, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Anne of Green Gables Fusion, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Gentle Harry, Hate to Love, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Independent Omega Louis, Jealous Harry, Louis almost drowns, M/M, Mention of Past Physical Abuse, Misunderstandings, No Smut, Omega Louis, Period-Typical Sexism, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Worldbuilding, activist louis, but inexplicit mentions of it, courting, prejudices, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 74,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28387881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomlinvelvet/pseuds/tomlinvelvet
Summary: “Are you mad?” he explodes, throwing his hands up, groaning. “I was so, so close to reaching my goal, and your stupid, stalking ass had to creep up on me, hm?”Harry is trying to keep his laughter in, walking closer to him, eyes soft. He doesn’t like the way those eyes make him feel, an odd, dangerous mix of nervous and flustered, so he bends down to pick up the books, raising an eyebrow when Harry growls in protest.“I wanted to pick them up for you,” the alpha pouts, and Louis glares at him, getting into position and lowering the pile of yellowed pages over the top of his head.“I’m a functional human being, thank you very much,” he grits out as he begins to walk and mentally count the amount of steps he takes.One, two, three, for heaven’s sake Harry fuck off!, four, five.He doesn’t let himself be distracted as the alpha walks along with him despite the slow pace, green eyes focused on him in a way that would, in any other cases, compelled him to throw a book in the alpha’s face.He doesn’t know why he doesn’t do it and certainly doesn’t want to think about the reason, whatever it might be.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 53
Kudos: 212





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [falsegoodnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsegoodnight/gifts).



> **Hello! This is an A/B/O Anne of Green Gables AU, which I hope you will enjoy. HAPPY BIRTHDAY RIS!! This is for you <3 Thank you Aleah for betaing for me <3   
> The plot at the beginning is fairly close to both the books and tv-series; and the world-building makes it so you can read this fic even without having a clue about Anne of Green Gables. Do keep in mind that Louis is very creative, and loves imagining, which is why he tends to ramble! He matures as the fic progresses x // Enjoy!**

[a taste of freedom and sweetened passion — fic post.](https://tomlinvelvetfics.tumblr.com/post/638772734942380032/a-taste-of-freedom-and-sweetened-passion-747k)

1875 

_“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will.”_ — Jane Eyre

There’s a cherry-tree that lies down the track, at the bend, and its leaves are being carried through Bright River, disappearing past the station house and jogging down the miles as they go. He watches them from the shingles with his back straight, while his carpetbag rests on his lap, corners following the curves of his thighs. The thing has trouble remaining closed; the fabric having worn out with time while the handle having a nasty habit of pulling out if it held properly the fabric having worn out with time. His fingers tighten around it, his short-bitten nails digging into the peeling leather as he stares down the line. Along the tracks, beads of weed and oxford ragworts jut out into the path, stuck to the ground by the heavy mess of steel. He licks his lips and snaps his attention back to the tree, appreciating its beauty and the way it stands out from the Spring-watered landscape. In the distance, the horizon line is finally visible, the clouds having cleared out since he’s arrived; waking up when the sky is still twilight is certainly not his favourite thing in the world, though his excitement had fueled his body enough to get him up and running. He had hoped that, through the train’s window, he’d get to see the dawn breaking and tainting the sky in nuances of orange and purple.

No such thing happened, to his great sadness; the clouds had blocked the vibrancy of the phenomenon, until only the ghost of the colours popped out from the layer of condensed mist. It didn’t rain, at least, something he’s both glad and disappointed about. He doesn’t particularly enjoy being drenched in cold water, especially since he’s only wearing a thin, short shirt made of yellowish-gray wincey and trousers that were once a dark brown, now a dull tawny brown dusted with stains from labour and weather. But he also finds ethereal the way the world around him becomes blurry with drops of water, and comes together through the delicate petrichor fragrance that remains long after the downpour has ceased. He sighs, shifting slightly, his toes curling inside his oversized boots — _it’s not the boots that are too big,_ Miss Janine would tell him whenever he complained, _but your feet that are too small._ As if he had a say when mighty God created him. He scoffs at the thought and nearly jumps out of his skin when a pale, bony hand darts out and ends up in his vision.

“You sure you don’t wanna sit in the omega’s waiting room?” the stationmaster’s rough voice asks him, tired eyes blinking at him lazily. A toothpick hangs from the corner of the alpha’s mouth, and he has a hard time not grimacing as the heavy smell of tobacco reaches him as the alpha’s breath waltzes to his face. He widens his blue eyes as he glances over his shoulder to the wooden surface behind him, then he thinks about being inside, trapped within bland-walls without a single thing to look at, and he practically shivers in terror.

“No, thank you,” he finally answers, offering a tiny smile at the stationmaster, and trying not to get distracted by the man’s bushy eyebrows. They certainly are impressive. “I prefer remaining right there. There is more scope for imagination.”

The alpha blinks at him in barely concealed stupor, his chapped lips open wide enough for the toothpick to nearly fall; though the alpha hopefully regains his composure, and proceeds to chew on the traumatised little wooden stick.

“Right,” he drawls, shrugging and making his way back to the door. At one point he hears the alpha snorts and mutters, _more scope for imagination, what the bloody fuck,_ but he’s much too preoccupied by the echoing, chronic sound of horse’s hooves hitting the ground to pay it any mind. _This is it,_ he thinks. This is what he’s been waiting for since the first flush of morning. 

A beautiful sorrel horse appears from the rugged chaos of blooming tree branches, and he has a hard time staying put and not running up to the animal to pet it. He finds animals fascinating, and loves the diversity among them; _isn’t it beautiful how drastically different from us other living beings are?_ He never got a positive answer to his question - a rhetorical one that the people back in the orphanage never understood, as if they didn’t know the concept of the word. He watches, expectant, as a tall, ungainly man jumps off the horse, patting its flank then tying it to the fences in the yard. He tries not to show just how expectant he is, but probably fails as he sets his eyes on the stranger who slowly creeps closer to the little wooden steps leading up to the porch. He can make out the features of the man’s face, as well as gets a whiff of wet pine cones and roasted walnuts; an alpha, then. He hasn’t been told much about the Tomlinsons; just that they were looking into adopting an extra hand to help around their farm.

The alpha is tall, but seems rather unsteady on his feet; his ash-grey hair is long enough to rest over his stooping shoulders, and his beard, which matches in colour, looks soft as the sunlight caresses it. He has a gentle face, which allows him to relax the slightest bit; he’s sure he has just seen David Tomlinson, and he’s prepared for the alpha to greet him but he’s caught-off guard when the alpha slides past him quickly, avoiding his eyes; he frowns just as the alpha disappears through the door, the thing softly clicking shut, taking with it the comforting alpha’s scent. He gulps and looks down at his shoes, taking in the scars maring the leather and the soles that, up front, have come undone from the toe cap. _Maybe he wasn’t told how I look?_ The thought cheers him up a bit and he wills his knees to stop bouncing out of nerves. 

A butterfly flutters its wings and rests over a beam of wood, and he’s watching it when the alpha — David Tomlinson, he presumes — comes out, looking a bit pale in the face. He doesn’t quite look at him, though he does shuffle closer, his heavy boots slowly thumping the wooden ground in a way that doesn’t match the rapid beating of his heart. He jumps to his feet once he’s sure that this odd-looking alpha is indeed David Tomlinson, extending his hand and beaming as the alpha awkwardly takes it, shaking it quickly before snatching it back to his side. He can sense the alpha’s discomfort so he decides to take over the conversation, something he doesn’t mind since he _always_ has something to say; a particular trait of his personality that some would consider a nuisance, while others (pretty much only him) find it rather endearing.

“I assume you are David Tomlinson of Green Gables?” he says in a sweet voice, trying to make the alpha before him more comfortable. He soothes the wrinkled fabric of his shirt with his hand, softening when the alpha offers him a tentative smile. “It’s delightful to finally meet you. I was starting to think that you might never come, and the scenarios that my brain had conjured up on the whys had been positively _dreadful._ But I’m glad you’re here now; you see, had you not come to fetch me, I might have gone down to that beautiful cherry-tree at the bend, and climb it up to spend the night within its sweet-smelling blossoms, under the moonlight. I reckon the starry night would be an incredible sight if I were to sleep outside, only protected from the outside world by the tree’s branches. Then I would have waited for you in the morning, on the uncomfortable shingles, quite sure you’ll eventually come. Though I _am_ very glad to see you right now; I do believe it gets quite cold at night.”

David blinks at him, his big blue eyes taking in the curious omega. 

“Uh,” he glances at his horse helplessly. “Right, hm. Come along, the horse is in the yard. May I ask your name? And uh, give me your bag.”

He smiles good-naturally as he hears the alpha’s voice for the first time. _They must have not told him my name!_ he tells himself, tightening his fingers around the rogue handle of his carpet-bag. 

“Oh, no, I can carry it! You see, it isn’t all that heavy despite my having all of my worldly goods in it, and well, it’s such an old bag that it acts wonky; if it isn’t helf properly, the handle pulls out. A _catastrophe,_ really!” he rolls his eyes to put emphasis on the statement. “And I’m Louis Austin, not Lewis, but Lou- _ee_! The French pronunciation is just so much better than the English one; less boring,” he replies, skipping behind the alpha as they make their way to the sorrel horse. Once there, he instantly puts his hand on its muzzle, cooing as it pushes its head towards his belly. “Oh, it’s so beautiful. What’s its name?”

David cracks a smile as he prepares the buggy, and he gestures at it for the omega to get into, which he does rather clumsily, clutching his bag to his chest.

“Belle,” David answers, whistling and slapping the reins to make Belle start walking, pulling the buggy after her. The wooden thing jostles as its wheels go over the bumpy path, and soon the station house is only a black dot against the colourful landscape as they make their way down a small steep hill. The cherry-tree is replaced by balsamy fir wood and wild plum trees, and the dull steel of the tracks is left behind for farmsteads that are scattered throughout the land; and in the distance, cattle walk the rolling heels and graze at the rain-damp, vibrant green grass. The sight is a pleasure for the eyes, and provides, as he is so fond of saying, way more scope for the imagination than the gloomy corners and black walls of the orphanage ever did. He sighs happily as he leans back against the cushioned seat, breathing in the sweet air, almost tasting the apple orchards. Birds sing from tree branches, chirping their happiness, trying to spread it across the country; and the feeling seeps through his skin, and he’s almost sure he has never felt so happy before. He almost squeals as waves of cherry-trees and slim white birches appear the further away they progress.

“Oh, David,” he breathes out, his cheeks flushing as his heart threatens to beat its way out of his chest. “This is all so beautiful. You know, back in the orphanage, it was so very hard to imagine what colours are; it was always so dark and gloomy and the people there were always so grumpy. The garden was a mess of dried weed and the walls were painted black, so that sometimes it felt as if I were in a perpetual ditch so deep that my voice never carried out to the top. But here, oh! How splendidly beautiful everything is! Look at those white birches, and the pinkish cherry-trees. They make for a lovely wedding, don’t you think David?”

The alpha flounders for several seconds, being quite content to listen to the omega talks his heart away and not expecting for his opinion to be sought for.

“I uh, I suppose they do,” he frowns, blinking at his big hands clutching the old leather-made reins. 

“I’m not so sure I’ll ever get married,” he pouts, throwing his hand in the air. “My hair isn’t silky, or shiny, or soft, and have you seen my freckles? One might think I’m full of pimples! And I’m way too skinny, I’d like to think of myself curvy, with a pretty rose sunset dress,” he glances down at his own clothes in disdain. “You have no idea of how ashamed I was when I left the asylum this morning, wearing this! It’s slightly reassuring that we all had to wear the same thing, a merchant in Hopeton last winter was kind enough to donate three hundred yards of wincey, and _this_ was the result! How I wish I owned a pretty shirt, or a pretty dress. Back in the asylum, I did ask for a dress instead of a shirt, but my being a male omega dissuaded them from giving me one. But I can totally picture myself wearing a stunning white dress, embroidered with flowers tainted in various shades of pink; and I’d give some flavour to my hair with a big hat decorated with Spring flowers, and I’d also be wearing all kinds of jewels, except for rings, for I’d prefer to have soft gloves over my fingers.”

He stops, slightly out of breath, and glances over at the alpha with a beaming smile. He allows himself to enjoy the landscape some more — it’s so different from Hopetown, much brighter and every nook and cranny breath _life._ He’s heard loads of things about Prince Edward Island, about the people that shine brighter than the fairies in all those fairytales he was able to read from a stolen book, and the grass that never loses its vibrancy during winter, or the mouth-watering fragrance of baked pies that twirls in the air, something he’s looking forward to (he has already bid farewell to the overcooked meat, undercooked potatoes or unseasoned stew that the orphanage used to serve them).

“I can’t believe I’ll get to live here,” he bites his lips, glancing over his shoulder as a butterfly flies by, wanting to follow it with his eyes until its shape can’t be made out anymore. “I’ve always imagined things, you know, but the things in my dreams very seldom come true; it’s delightful that for once, one of my imaginations will come true. I can picture myself running through those meadows, with the grass tickling my legs, and my shoes getting damp from the wet soil, which would dirty my ugly shirt in random patterns. And maybe I’d encounter a squirrel — I absolutely love them, they’re so tiny and cute and seem so soft —, and play with it, and laugh as it runs up a tree. Isn’t it absolutely wonderful how fast squirrels can climb trees? How I wish I could do that; whenever I’d be annoyed, I’d simply run up a trunk and isolate myself among the canopy of a forest, and witness from my throne up there all the beautiful things the world has to offer. Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be a tiny animal? Back at the orphanage, I’d dream of my being a lovely little moth, flying up to the moon and away from the asylum. You see, it was near to impossible to sneak out of it, not that I wanted to, because I certainly _am_ a good omega, but it was so nice to lay awake in my bed and dream of freedom. I’d also ask myself so many questions; like, why is the sky blue? And why do cats enjoy napping in the sun? And is love at first sight a real thing? I don’t think it is; I reckon the feeling of love is something that takes time to nurture, but again I can’t be so sure, in so many fairy tales the Omega falls madly in love with Alpha from the beginning, and I, unfortunately, did not experience love to be able to form any kind of personal, reliable opinion and— am I talking too much? People tend to tell me that I do. If you want, I can certainly stop, though it will be difficult — but not impossible, I just have to make up my mind to it.”

He looks at David, who switches between looking up front at the road and at the omega, seemingly trying to find the right words. He dreads being told he’s being annoying — something that has happened way too many times before — and he figures being seen as bothersome by the people who accepted to adopt him is not the ideal way to begin his new life here in Avonlea. He’s fully prepared to tuck himself in the corner of the buggy, and to keep his mouth shuts and his wild thoughts tamed, when the alpha smiles softly.

“You can talk as much as you want, I don’t mind.”

The pressure on his guts loosen, and his tense shoulders relax. He perks up as a red bird soars by, the area around his beak black. He points at it, tilting his head in curiosity.

“What is this bird called?” he’s never seen one like this before, and he finds fascinating the way its bright red plumage stands out against the green of their surroundings.

“A cardinal,” David smiles, staring at it for several seconds before focusing back on the road. “Quite common here.”

“Really?” the omega frowns, both delighted upon knowing he’ll get to see such lovely creatures even more, and deeply disappointed that he’s seeing such a bird only _now._ Where has it been his entire life? How much brighter his mornings would have been had he woken up to a cardinal chirping on the dust-layered windowsill back in the orphanage! They quickly drive past it and he has to physically hold himself from jumping out of the buggy, just to gaze some more at the tiny animal that holds so much beauty. “I was told about Green Gables,” he continues. “And from what I heard, it must be heaven on earth. Is it true that there’s a brook near the house?”

“Well, yes, you can see it out the windows.”

He scrunches up his nose to keep the smile from splitting his face in two, though he knows he is failing spectacularly. “That’s extraordinarily amazing. I can imagine myself walking down the brook and dipping my toes in the gentle ripples the water makes as it meets the scattered rocks. This all seems so unreal, and I’ve never been so happy before! I’ve never belonged to somebody, and it’s such a thrill to belong to you, or to live in a house where I might have my own bedroom — I used to share one with seven other orphans, which was a _nightmare,”_ he grimaces, trying to tamp down the bad memories he’s got from there. “But anyway, I’m perfectly happy with sleeping anywhere, even on the porch; I imagine just hearing the delicate tune of the brook in the distance will lure me in the deepest slumber ever known to mankind. Just thinking about that fills me with so much joy, and I’d affirm that I am the happiest person alive as we speak, but…,” he huffs and reaches up to his fringe, which has a mind of its own as it keeps falling into his eyes no matter how many times he pushes it back behind his ear. His nails scratch down his cheek, where he knows dozens of uneven dots rest. “How can I be completely happy with such stiff hair and so many freckles? Could you picture me with gorgeous, raven-dark hair or sunflower blonde hair, that shine under the twinkle of the day?”

“Uh,” David sets his wide eyes on him. “I dunno. I suppose I can.”

“Oh?” he tilts his head to the side, considering. “That’s really fortunate that you can imagine it, but awfully unfortunate for me since I just can’t picture myself in any other colour than the dull reddish brown of my hair; and the freckles… they’re just so prominent and just… there, aren’t they? At times I like to imagine myself without freckles, and with a bit more curves, and dressed in a beautiful red dress — as red as the cardinal’s feathers; and I’d go dancing by the brook when the moonlight casts its glow over the unresting water. But these are wishful thoughts; the people back at the orphanage made it plainly obvious that I was pushing my luck a bit too much.”

Suddenly, his mouth clamps down in silent awe. He can’t mutter a word even if he tried; he’s struck down by the sight before him. They’ve reached what the Newbridge people took to calling the _Avenue._ He’s never seen anything like it; indeed, a road four or five hundred yards long stretch to Avonlea, and is cushioned on either side by apple-trees whose boughs arche over them, creating a canopy of snowy blooms that, under the sunlight, cast an intricate shadow over their path, only disturbed by their presence.

“This is…” he breathes out, looking up at the alpha in quiet wonder. David smiles knowingly, gazing up at the heavens above and taking in everything around them.

“Beautiful, hm? These trees were planted years ago by an eccentric old farmer. Do you like it?”

He has to hold himself back from gasping. _“Like_ it? Oh, David, I more than like it; I absolutely adore it. Usually everything can be improved by imagination. There’s always a flaw that can be erased by the brain; but this… it’s the first time my imagination hasn’t had to alter reality to make it even more pleasant. And it’s delightful, oh so absolutely delightful.”

He reaches up at one stray bough that hangs lower than its counterparts, and he caresses it with his fingertips; the soft pink-kissed blooms seem to follow his touch, not wanting for it to flutter away, and if he could he’d spend the night just petting it, he would; he’s bath under the moonlight as it filters through the angelic canopy, and he’d let himself be lulled into dreams of Wonderland.

“This is all so incredible,” he whispers, but then he frowns, biting his bottom lip in thought. “But the Avenue seems too common a name for such… splendor. I’d say… oh, just look at those lovely blooms, and they fill me with so much… what could be the word? Delight! So much delight!” he glances at David, who shrugs. “I think… This should be called the White Way of Delight. Isn’t it perfectly fitting, David? Whenever I don’t like a name, I just love to give them new ones; this is what I meant when earlier I said I tend to improve reality with my brain. Other people shall call it the Avenue, but it will always be the White Way of Delight to me. I always get so much thrill whenever I come across something beautiful; you know, the kind of thrill that makes your heart speed up and your toes curl on themselves. Have you ever felt such a thrill before, Mr. Tomlinson?”

The alpha blinks both at being addressed so formally, and at being addressed at all; as if he weren’t quite expecting for the omega to fish for his opinions.

“Well now, I don’t reckon I ever had.”

Louis sighs, gently patting the alpha’s forearm. “Shame. Personally, I’ve felt that way so many times, be it whenever I gazed out of the orphanage’s windows and, instead of being met with the same dull garden, I’d spot one blooming flower among the mess of weed. I used to wonder at how such a pretty thing would blossom among dead things; how did it find enough strength to thrive in such an hostile place? You see, I would picture myself as these lone flowers. The orphanage was… unpleasant, to put it lightly, and I’d try to remain positive through it all. Because you know, when you look beyond the ugly façade of things, there’s always a piece of beauty, or a piece of something that can provide to our imagination. There were so many spiders back in the orphanage, it was actually ridiculous; but then one day I saw baby spiders, they were as big as a tea drop, they were so cute. They seemed a lot less scary suddenly, and I’d create all kinds of amazing stories about them and— _oh!”_

He stops himself from saying anything else as they exit the Avenue — or rather, White Way of Delight — to drive over the crest of a hill. The sound of rushing water fills the silence around them, and when he glances down, he notices a pond below them and, as they go over the little bridge that curves over it, he spots its end disappearing into the shadows of fir and maple. Wild plum trees tend to lean out from the bank, almost grazing the water as they hunch over, and further away from them, the melodious symphony of frogs and dragonflies emerge from the marsh, accompanying the benign dance of the reeds and sedges.

“That’s Barry’s pond,” David informs him, slapping the reins once to urge Belle forward.

“Oh,” he purses his lips. “It seems to be a rather unblemished name for such a lovely place. No… I’d prefer calling it… the _Lake of Shining Waters._ Oh, isn’t it just fitting? Can you see how the sunlight creates rainbows over the shallowest part of the pond?”

“Uh?” David shifts his eye until he can see better the stream of water below them. “Ah, yes, lovely indeed. I do think the name you gave it much better than the original one.”

Louis beams, clapping his hands in glee. “I’m glad you think so. People tend to ask me to shut up. I’ve been called a child more than once, only because my imagination runs wild. But what’s the use of imagination if it can’t be untamed? The beauty of it is that it’s unpredictable, and for this very reason I can’t help the way I imagine things. And I’m glad for the unexpectedness; if everything was predictable, life would be so boring! By the way, why is it called Barry’s pond?”

They’ve fully crossed the bridge, and he has to glance over his shoulder one last time to ink the sight underneath his eyelids so that, when night came and they flutter closed, he’ll have something to dream about.

“Undoubtedly because Mr. Malik lives up there,” David jerks his head towards a prominent house that could be easily mistaken for a mansion. Louis yearns to walk up to it and touch its old walls, and maybe run through the big rooms while wearing an elegant dress — preferably the white and pink one. “The place is called Orchard Slope.”

“Orchard Slope?” he repeats, testing the words and brightening up. “What a lovely name. I’m glad it was named accordingly to its splendor; I love it when names do justice to what they represent. I feel less cheated over, if you know what I mean.”

David hums and gestures at something in the distance. “Green Gables is further behind the Orchard Slope. All we have to do is drive up that hill, round a corner, and we’ll be there.”

The prospect of seeing the place where he’ll be living for the next foreseeable future causes his entire body to light up as anticipation pumps through his veins. He hasn’t been told much about the place; just that it is a farm owned by the Tomlinsons. The sun has begun to go back down to the horizon line, getting ready to leave its throne for the moon, and the sky has shifted from vibrant blue to marigold. To the west, a dark church squire rises up into the sky, almost touching the clouds (not quite, but he likes to think it does), and around them snug farmsteads rest over slopes that are covered with long strands of grass that he images are perfect for the cattle. He puts his elbows on his knees and rests his face in his cupped hands, just admiring the scenery. He almost wants to pinch himself raw, quite sure this is all a dream; that he’ll wake up and instead of the gold-tainted sky, he’ll be gazing up at the peeling ceiling of the damp-smelling orphanage. 

He’s never had a place to call home, and to think that he’s two steps away from having one is enough to cause tears to spring to his eyes.

David glances at him, worried. “Are you alright?”

He sniffs and laughs wetly, nodding. “I’m splendid. My eyes are only wet with joy. I imagine that’s a normal reaction to overwhelming happiness. I’ll get to call a place _home._ It’s something I’ve always longed for.”

As night settles slowly, and the first glimmer of stars can be seen against the darkening sky, the omega doesn’t see the uneasiness that suddenly befalls the alpha’s face. He’s much too preoccupied by the surrounding woods and the trees that seem to adjust themselves to fully bathe in the bluish glow to feel the way David’s body has gone tense. The buggy advances gently through the night, and he struggles containing his delighted gasp as he spots, in the distance, a single twirling light that deep down he knows to be Green Gables.

“Is that…?” he begins, cutting himself short and turning his head to look at the alpha, who despite his inner turmoil manages a small smile. Belle pulls them into a yard whose borders, under the pitch black sky, fade into the landscape so that the area seems much bigger than it actually is. Poplar leaves rustle along with the chilled breeze of the night, and a same sense of shaking traces within his body - though not from the newfound cold. Instead, he finds a shakiness in his body from the light flickering through the windows of a beautiful little house. _The house._ David nods, a smile on his face, and parks the buggy in a corner. Instantly, Louis jumps off, nearly sending his broken bag to the ground. He manages to catch it before his stuff spreads out in the soil, but he knows that, had it happened, he would have left them at his feet to rush to the house.

“Uh,” David glances behind him after having taken Belle to the stable. He jerks his thumb at the wooden door. “Right this way.”

As he follows the alpha to the house, he’s glad that, when stepping into it, he feels a lot more grounded to the earth beneath his soles; because perhaps all of this really isn’t a dream, and tomorrow he’ll get to wake up to the blushing hours of Green Gables.

It’s something he looks forward to with all his might and main.

  
  


-

  
  


The Tomlinsons’ house is what he’d expect to see in an ad for houses; it’s clean, and plainly decorated, and it’s everything he could ever have asked for. He’s always complained about the orphanage not providing enough scope for imagination; gazing at a peeling ceiling at night didn’t do much to fuel his dreams, and spending the day scrubbing the floor did very little to him besides making burns blossom all over his skin. The gentle smell of toasted bread is the first thing he notices as he steps inside, and his fingers tighten around the handle of his carpet-bag as he spots the dining table, set up for three; and his heart threatens to beat out of his chest when he thinks that one of the plates is for _him._

A brisk, distantly femine voice rings through the house, and the clicking noise of heeled boots echoes against the white-painted, wooden walls. A tall, thin woman walks quickly to them, drying up her wet hands with the apron that’s tightly tied around her waist and, in the process, accentuates her delicate curves. He straightens up and wet his lips, quickly pushing his fringe behind his ear and soothing out the hopeless wrinkles on his shirt — as useless as the gesture might be, it’s nice to tell himself that at least he tried. He wants to make the best impression on Joyce Tomlinson, and he reckons that, since he has befriended David Tomlinson quite well, there is no reason for Joyce to think badly of him, unless of course, she isn’t fond of omega that tends to talk a bit too much.

She isn’t quite smiling, but somehow, as she creeps closer and her nostrils flare, her expressionless face shifts into one of incredibility. 

“David,” she says, her eyes going to the alpha that shrinks on himself, almost as if he wished to become one with the house’s foundation. “This,” she gestures at him, “is not an alpha.”

“I know but,” David flounders for several seconds, his eyelids twitching in apparent discomfort, and witnessing the distressed alpha results in Louis growing even more confused and, though he doesn’t want to admit it, scared. “I arrived at the station and there was only _him.”_

Joyce frowns, her otherwise pretty face taking the stern look of a woman who has had years of practice to master it. “We sent words for an alpha, David.”

 _Alpha._ The word ricochets around in his brain, and he struggles making sense of it, not because he’s unfamiliar with the word, but because it is the last thing he expected to hear when he woke up this morning to make his way to Green Gables. He stands frozen on the doormat, staring at Mrs. Tomlinson as she gestures at him and spews all kinds of words at David about the situation, words that don’t even reach him. Instead, his limbs begin to tremble, and he has to bite his bottom lip so hard to keep a gasp from spilling out of his mouth. But he can’t control the tears no matter how much he tries; they creep up his aching heart and fill up his eyelids until they have no choice but to spill out. They create random paths as they travel down his cheeks, and with a shaky hand he wipes them away, a sob finally breaking out from his body, like the pained cry of a wounded animal in the dead of the night.

Joyce finally stops talking, and David’s troubled eyes are on him, and he wants, more than anything else, for the ground to open up and swallow him whole; at least he expects for the gloomy soil to keep him, instead of spitting him out like some unwanted worm. He leans against the nearest wall, pressing the back of his hand against his lips. _They don’t want you_ , that mean little voice within himself scoffs, making him cry even harder. _This was all too good to be true,_ another inner part whispers, and he has to agree with him; the sight of the White Way of Delight, or the company of a gentle alpha who doesn’t mind his mindless blabbers, should have been the first warnings on the endless list of them.

But still, he _hoped._ He hoped for reality to be kind to him for once in his life, and hoped for the wrapped gift at the end of the path to not be poisoned. But then, maybe he had been asking too much; loving folks, a welcoming house, great food to eat, his own room - maybe the simplest things in life weren’t meant for him. He slides down the wall, the rough wood pulling at loose strings that have come undone from his worn-out shirt, and pulls his knees to his chest.

He could still _imagine,_ he tries to reassure himself; if he’s sent back to the asylum, then at least the only thing — his imagination — that has stuck to him throughout his entire life will still be there. Maybe he’ll dream up a cardinal chirping from the windowsill, and lovely blossoming cherry-trees instead of the snake-like weeds back at the orphanage. His body shakes and his fingers let go of the wonky handle of his bag; he hears the mess it makes as it hits the floor and opens up, his “worldly goods” spilling over the floor; which isn’t much. A comb, a notebook, a pencil, a spare shirt and two nightgowns, and dried up flower petals that he had gathered several days ago.

The silence, only disturbed by his hiccups and occasional, unattractive sniff, is interrupted by Joyce who has hesitantly walked up to him. She crouches down and sighs, her hand hovering over his forearm. He can smell lemon, baked pies and smoking fire radiating from every pore of her body. _She’s an omega, then,_ he thinks miserably. _No wonder they wanted a second alpha to help around the farm._

“Now, now, child,” she begins awkwardly, glancing at David helplessly. “There’s no need to cry.”

He breathes out and puts his puffy, red and wet eyes on her, managing to frown in disbelief. “Yes, there is need! You don’t want me! All the hope that I had of having a home has gone down the drain the moment you said you intended for an alpha to be brought to you!”

She opens her mouth, then closes it, trying to come up with the right words. In the meantime, he focuses his attention on the other alpha that looks lost as he gazes around the home in which he spent his entire life. “And _you,”_ he begins, another wave of tears overwhelming him. “Couldn’t you tell me I wasn’t what you wanted? Why let me ride with you through the White Way of Delight, and over the Lake of Shining Waters, and past the Orchard Slope if it’s only for you to tell me that I won’t get to gaze upon them for the rest of my life, as I intended to do the moment we set off?”

“Lake of— what on earth is he babbling about?” Joyce demands David, who rubs the back of his neck.

“He’s uh, referring to the conversation we had on the way, and I’ll put the mare in, Joyce.”

Then he hastily walks out of the house, the chilled breeze of the night pushing the door closed after his tall figure. _Hasn’t he already put Belle in the stable?_ Before he can dwell on it all, Joyce stands up, her knees popping as she does so, and she openly grimaces at the noise. Her stormy gray eyes settle on him, and she passes her bony hand over her tired face.

“Up you go,” she tells him softly, and he reluctantly compels, clumsily getting to his feet. His vision falls upon his things that have scattered over the floor, and he quickly gathers them together and throws them into the useless bag. He hates how sticky his face feels from dried tears and mucus, and he’s ashamed that she has to see him in such a state, but he can’t help how broken he is after having his dreams shattered with a single flick of the wrist. He looks back at the door from which David has gone, and somehow wishes the alpha were there; everything is too unfamiliar around him. The clean kitchen, the toasted bread (in the orphanage they were only given white stale bread), the little scalloped glass dish of apple crab preserve, the square white pillows on the settees; he isn’t used to all of this and somehow, after spending eight miles with David, he’s come to find some comfort in the alpha’s presence.

 _He led you on,_ his inner voice reminds him, and with another stab to the heart he walks to the chair that Joyce pulls out, before rounding the table to the other side. She puts her hands on the back of the chair, and sighs even deeper than the first time. Another sob breaks from the tight confinement of his mouth, and she offers him a smile that he thinks should be comforting but, in truth, only urges him to cry even more.

“Please don’t cry. You’re welcome to say to-night, of course, then we’ll sort… this affair. What is your name?” she asks him, taking a gentler tone. She picks up a piece of bread, and spreads a generous amount of jelly over it. Then, she hands it to him. “Eat, you look a bit weak in the face.”

He sniffs, using the sleeve of his shirt to rub at his face, and he sees Joyce glaring at the movement but he can’t find it in himself to _care._ They’re going to send him back no matter how well he behaves. He looks at the warm piece of bread and takes a big bite out of it, partly because he is hungry, and also because he wants to delay answering for several seconds. He chews slowly at first, but one look at Joyce’s stern expression has him speeding up the process until he can get a few words out. He’s stressed! He wants to be left alone! Is it too much to ask?

“I’m Louis William Austin,” he begins, his eyes on a bread crumb that stands out against the pristine white tablecloth like a sore thumb. “And please, be sure to pronounce it Lou-ee, it sounds so much better than Lewis. Oh, it would be the _death_ of me if you were to call me Lewis. It is such a tragic way of pronouncing Louis.”

“Tragic?” Joyce frowns while picking up the teapot. She pours hot water in a cup, then sprinkles some sugar in it. He scrunches up his nose at the gesture — who on earth put sugar in their tea? But he remains quiet, not wanting to whine about such a trivial thing. Joyce cracks a smile that mellows her otherwise grim expression. “I hardly consider calling you Lewis a tragedy. I rather like it.”

Louis frowns, his stomach dropping at the prospect of being called _Lewis._ He wouldn’t be able to bear it. “Please, do not,” he shakes his head quickly, gulping. “Please, you’ll send me to my grave faster than I can say _fiddlesticks.”_

She shakes her head and brings the cups of tea to the table, then she crosses her arms over her bosom. When he looks properly at her, he can spot some resemblance to David in her facial features, but it’s startling how they differ in their characters. They make for interesting persons, and he’s saddened that he won’t get to know them more. 

“Could you tell me how this mistake came to be made? We sent words for an alpha. Were there alphas at the asylum?”

He keeps his tired sigh at bay, and nods gently. “Oh, there were many of them, but you see, Mrs. Spencer said that you wanted an omega boy, about seventeen to eighteen years old, and the matron, Mrs. Janine, said that I would do. You have no idea of how _delighted_ I was when I heard that I was about to leave the orphanage. You see, after nine years spent there I was starting to lose hope and resign myself to living within those gloomy walls until my very last breath.”

She blinks at him and shakes her head. “This is what happens when sending words instead of going ourselves,” she mutters, scoffing under her breath. Then she looks at him again. “You have to understand, we asked for an alpha. We need help around the farm. Lord! This is a pretty piece of business!”

He doesn’t dare say anything and instead, he nibbles at the bread without much convictions. He looks at the steaming cup of tea that’s placed before him, and feels sorry that he isn’t in the proper state of mind to appreciate it. He’s never declined a cup of tea before, and he can’t believe today is the day he renders this statement false. 

“Are you not going to eat?” Joyce asks sharply, and he gulps.

“It’s hard to eat when you’re in the depth of despair,” he answers rather pitifully, just as the front door opens and David steps through, having gained some of his natural colors back after spending several minutes outside. He removes his hat and slowly walks to the dining table, dragging a chair back and sitting down. Instantly, Joyce gives him a cup of tea, and he nods at her in thanks and spreads apple crab preserve over a piece of bread.

“You are in no depth of despair,” Joyce admonishes, pursing her lips.

He watches the alpha in apprehension, before focusing back on Joyce. “But _I am,”_ he insists, putting one hand over his chest, where he can feel the steady beating of his heart. “You’d be too, if you were an orphan and told you were finally about to be adopted only to have your hopes shattered the moment you arrive at the place you were supposed to spend the rest of your life in! I’m in the deepest ditch in the world, and I can’t get out of it no matter how many times I try!”

He stops when he feels another bucket of tears surge to his eyes. He can feel the eyes of the Tomlinsons on his person, and he wants to shrink from their gazes. Is it him? Is it the freckles? Or maybe he’s been talking too much, and for that they want to send him back. Maybe they think he’s weak, because he certainly looks the part; his arms are too thin, as is the rest of his body, really, but he’s always told everybody that what he lacks in physics can be found in his brain. He knows a lot of poems by heart, is good with figures, and is fond of geography and history. He was the best student back at the orphanage. He picks up fast, and he understands things faster than the average person (or, that’s what his teachers back then used to tell him).

Before he can say all of this to Joyce, feeling that she is the only one of the two Tomlinsons that needs convincing, she speaks up, her voice covering his own until it’s only a shadow that flickers depending on the position of the sun.

“You must be tired,” she clears her throat, glancing to the side at David. “And you’re not eating. Come, I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping to-night.”

The chair scrapes against the ground, while his breath is shaky with each inhale he takes as he stands up; his things jostle in his carpet-bag as he follows Joyce to the flight of stairs. The small sounds all wrap the silence around them in a ball of uneasiness, and he feels oddly trapped as the tension in the air closes in on him. If he could, he’d sleep outside with Belle. At least, the cold wind and fragrance of wet soil and damp meadows would have put him at ease. 

He follows her up the steps, her heels clicking against the wood while how own, having flattened over time, barely makes a single sound. 

“You can sleep in the gable room,” she tells him, leading him down a corridor, past several doors to the furthest one. It’s painted in white, much like the rest of the house, and he isn’t surprised to discover that the inside is just as plain as he expected it to be. He slowly steps through the doorway, clutching his bag to his chest. A round braided mat rests on the wooden floor, spicing up the otherwise bare walls and adding a bit of color to the overall wedding of brown (that comes from the three-cornered table) and light grey (that can be seen tainting the feather tick on the old-fashioned bed, which has been pushed to the room’s corner). 

Joyce sets the candle she has taken with her on the three-legged table, the weak flame barely illuminating the entire room. He stands in the middle of it all, feeling awkward; how is he to sleep in a place where he isn’t welcomed?

“Do you have sleepwears?” she wonders, staying in the doorway, her hands stuck together in front of her long skirt.

He nods, licking his chapped lips and tentatively dropping his bag to the ground, relieved when it stays upright. “Yes. I have two nightgowns.”

She nods, satisfied. “Alright. I’ll let you get dressed, then.” She narrows her eyes at him. “I’ll come back in a few minutes to blow the candle out lest you do it yourself and set the place on fire.”

She quickly exits the room, leaving him on his own in a place that he can only consider as alien. Had he been feeling anything else than sadness, he’d have appreciated the six-by-eight mirror, or how soft the mat looks (and he’d imagine wiggling his toes against it). He’d have probably jumped on the bed, the thick mattress calling out for him. But instead, he undresses with the corners of his lips turned down, taking from his bag one of nightgowns. It’s skimpy, like the other one, having owned both of them since he was thirteen years old, and, much like the other, is made of wincey that has, overtime, lost its past vibrancy and softness. It’s stiff as he slips it on, and it doesn’t even cover his knees.

He folds his clothes neatly, placing them on a prim yellow chair, and pushes his boots against the wall, lining them with great care. He might not own the best clothes, and they might be torn in some hidden places, he still likes taking care of the few things he owns. If he’s learnt one thing by growing up in the orphanage, it is to never take for granted what he has; even when it’s a pair of boots whose soles have come undone from the insole. 

He eyes the bed, and his drooping shoulders and puffy eyes urge him to get into it and sleep his misery away, but another part within doesn’t want to. Instead, he wishes to curl underneath the window and glance up at the moon, letting its beams caress his face. If he closes his eyes and puts his head right underneath the surface of his imagination, he might be able to picture them as delicate, attentionate fingers. His heart yearns for love. He longs to be loved and to love in return; his old, colourless memories itch for a family to breathe a bit of life into them, and the lines making up his face want to be distorted into smiles of joy that aren’t fostered by his ideal conception of the world.

He wants concrete. He wants to sprinkle his imagination with reality so that he won’t have to improve the latter with the former. He wants the opposite, actually; for once in his life, he wants reality to be better than what he can conjure up. A bit like the White Way of Delight.

He drags his feet to the bed, pushing off the soft tick and sliding underneath it. It is thick enough to warm him up instantly, a wonder he’d have marveled at (for at the orphanage, they were given a thin, itchy piece of cloth that barely covered them — because of course it didn’t grow along with them —, and it barely provided any warmth when snow was gently falling outside) had he not been so downtrodden. He sighs and nestles his face in the sweet-smelling pillow, rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric. What is he going to _do_ once he’s back to the orphanage? How is it fair that he doesn’t get to run through the meadows, or pet the cattle, or jump in the clear water of the Lake of Shining Waters, or sleep overnight underneath the White Way of Delight on a couch of cherry blossoms?

 _Not fair,_ he repeats in his head, his bottom lip jutting out as tears spring to his eyes. _Not fucking fair! I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to see Betty Jason or hear anymore of Mrs. Janine’s voice and I don’t wanna gaze at the cold ceiling of the orphanage and I just… want to stay there._ His entire body relaxes into the mattress but not because exhaustion is finally overtaking his body, but because the weight of his emotions is too slowly, but surely, becoming too much to bear.

Ghost-like footsteps echo outside the room, ricocheting against the walls of Green Gables like wicked pebbles hitting the innocent stained glass of a random church window. He expects it, when several seconds later, the doorknob screeches delicately and Joyce steps into the room. He stays still as she comes closer, and holds his breath as she remains there for several seconds.

“Good night,” she says, voice kind but a little bit awkward. His fingers dig deeper into the fabric curving around him.

“I’d hardly call that a _good_ night,” he says softly, his throat tightening as it clogs up from the sadness piling up within him. “In fact,” he sniffs, unable to look at her. His voice cracks. “It’s the worst one I’ve _ever_ had.”

Joyce doesn’t answer. As promised, she blows the candle out, and even through the gloom that suddenly floods the room, he can tell she hesitates before exiting it. She still does it, though, and soon he’s left alone with his depressing thoughts and the starry night. Billions of stars are witnessing his plight, and he hopes they’re sympathetic towards him and weeps for the sad soul that is his own.

No matter how much he tries, he can’t find sleep, so he throws his legs soundlessly off the side of the bed and stands up. His toes meet the cold wood, and he goes to the door. Maybe he can ask Joyce for some bread and jelly? _You shouldn’t,_ his inner voice tells him. _You’ll be just annoying her._ He pouts to himself as he slowly opens the door, grimacing as it starts screeching. _David or Joyce better put some oil on that._ But then again, what does he care? He won’t even be around to watch the doorknob being greased. Slowly, going centimeters by centimeters, he manages to open the door fully, and he steps into the corridor.

The moonlight that has been painting the walls of his room, rushes behind him and leaks into the hall, coloring it in purplish-blue light. He doesn’t even bother closing the door fully, leaving it in-between open, and the corridor becomes dark again. He walks to the stair, but as he is about to go down them, he hears voices coming from the kitchen. He knows what he is about to do is wrong, but still, he goes down three steps and sits down, so that he is close enough to hear what is being said but high enough to be concealed by the piece of wall to his right. He draws his knees close to his chest, and listens with his bottom lip pulled behind his front teeth.

“... The message had been twisted, somehow! I knew not handling this business by ourselves to the very end would lead to such misunderstandings. Tomorrow, I’ll drive over to Mrs. Spencer and sort this situation out. This omega boy will have to be sent back to the asylum.”

His heart shatters even more, and he’s surprised it’s even possible. He waits for David’s answer, the seeking feeling in his stomach piercing his guts with every muttered words from the Tomlinsons.

“I guess so,” he hears the alpha answer, albeit with a bit of reluctance; he isn’t sure, maybe his brain is making up things to convince himself that David, the alpha who has been so nice to him, wants to keep him.

“What do you mean by you _guess_ so? Don’t you know it? We asked for an alpha!”

David sighs, and Louis wishes he could see the alpha’s face. “It’s just… he’s nice, don’t you think? He’s bright and I enjoy hearing him talk. He seems very intelligent, and methinks it would be a shame to send him back when he’s so set on staying here.”

Joyce scoffs. “You enjoy hearing him _talk?_ What use is there in talking? We need someone strong to help you around in the farm, not spouting poetry about the weather! You don’t mean to say we ought to keep him, David Tomlinson!”

 _But I’m strong,_ he thinks miserably, glancing down at his thin arms. _I don’t look the part, maybe, but I am._ He doesn’t know who he is trying to convince at this point. _And poetry is great,_ he thinks then. _Life would be boring without poetry._ He shrinks even more on himself, his nails creating croissant-shaped wounds into his skin from how hard he is gripping himself.

“I— I suppose you’re right,” David stammers, and Louis wants to scream. “I, uh, suppose it’s too absurd of an idea to keep him.”

“Of course it is _absurd!”_ he hears her snaps, though the tone of her voice remains calm, which makes for an odd mix. “What good would he be to us?”

 _That’s true,_ he holds the tears back. _What good will I be to them?_ Spouting poetry is considered useless by most.

“We might be some good to him,” David replies unexpectedly, the meaning of his sentence hanging in the air and creating a tension so great that even Louis feels it. His heart grows in size as his brain soaks up the words and transfers it to his beating organ, which in turn transforms them into drops of sorrow that slowly fills his jar of pain. He can’t breath. He is struggling to keep his head above the water, and his limbs flail, but still he suffocates.

“David, that boy has bewitched you! You want to keep him!”

“As I said, he’s interesting. He brings light to Green Gables.”

“He’s been here for _hours,_ not _days,_ how can you say that already? And anyway, I have no need for an omega boy, so he needs to be sent back right away.”

“I could hire a French alpha boy,” David hastily answers. “And he could stay here and keep you company.”

Joyce’s voice has gone cold, colder than the breeze outside. “I don’t need any more company, Rachel does the job fairly well, and she’s a handful already. I’m not keeping him.”

Louis stands up as David answers, _“it’s as you say, Joyce, of course,”_ and tries his hardest to keep his weak knees steady lest he’d fall down the stairs and blow his cover. He takes his time going through the corridor, scared that the wood underneath his soles will crumble up, or make some loud noise to alert the Tomlinsons. But then, as soon as he steps into the bedroom and the door clicks shut behind him, he rushes to the bed and throws his body over the sheets, a sob breaking out from his lips.

And, finally, the tears he’s been holding back spill down his cheeks. 

  
  


-

  
  


As a rooster crows in the distance, sunbeams filter through the window, caressing whatever it can, including his face. The warmth it provides slip underneath his skin, and causes his eyes to flutter open. He squints as he is momentarily blinded, and, covering the better part of his face with his hand, he sits up and sighs. His body is pleasantly sore from the night, though his eyes are heavy from the buckets of tears he shed, and they tickle unpleasantly to the point he has to press his fingers in his eyelids to soothe the feeling away.

The sky is clear and the sun is shining, which on any other day would have cheered him up, but all he feels is deep sorrow and apprehension. Out of the window, the view is chopped up by the boughs of a cherry-tree, and he smiles to himself as he makes his way to the tree. He pushes up the sash, deducting that the old thing has not been opened in a while from the way it easily gets stuck to the top without needing anything to hold it up. He rests his forearms on the windowsill and gazes at the garden, then at the stable, then at the rolling hills in the distance; he stretches his arm out to touch the soft blooms, marvelling at their beauty. The old, huge cherry-tree curves around one side of the house, and it’s so full of blossoms that not a single leaf can be seen, and the sunshine struggles filtering through the thick bush. This big tree offers a delightful contrast to the other, smaller rows of cherry-trees that stand to the right of the house; while on the other side, apple trees rest over vibrant green grass that has white spots at random places due to the dandelions. He bites his lips as he spots the lilac-trees in the garden, and closes his eyes as his nostrils flare, meeting up with the sickeningly sweet-smelling air. 

To say he won’t get to experience this tomorrow! To say that, come next morning, he’ll be assaulted by the peculiar stench of bleached walls and boiled cabbage. He shivers at the thought, and wills himself not to cry any more. He has to be strong to bear the outcome of the day, and he figures that his life could have been more miserable; he could have spent the rest of his life in the orphanage without having seen Green Gables, without having gazed out of the very window he is currently standing at; and he allows himself to embroider the sight of blushing fields lush with clover sloping down to the small brook in the distance, and he sprinkles his imagination with all the woodsy goodies he can spot, be it the mosses or ferns or the firs or just the white birches curving over like long, animated thin fingers. _There’s so much scope for imagination here,_ he can’t help thinking. _I don’t want to be ripped away from this Wonderland._

But he’ll have to accept that, in several hours, he won’t be at Green Gables anymore. Joyce calls his name from downstairs and he quickly dresses up, putting on his shirt, his trousers, his suspenders and boots. Then, he turns the bedclothes back over the foot of the bed, soothing out the creases until not a single wrinkle is in sight. Once satisfied with himself, he gently folds his nightgown and pushes it in his carpet-bag, grabbing it tightly and glancing out of the window one last time, just to memorize the sight some more. His heart skips a beat as he spots, in the faraway landscape, drops of blue. The sea. He almost gasps as his entire being fills up with the need to go see it up close, but it’s not an option. He creeps to the window one last time, plucks a blossom from the cherry-tree, and puts it behind his ear, brushing to the side his long fringe.

The door swings closed behind him, and he’s dreadfully sad as he thinks that it’ll be the last time he’ll get to touch the rusty doorknob. _I’ll miss you,_ he thinks to it, pouting slightly. _I hope you’ll get nicely oiled. I’ll be sure to inform Joyce of your predicament._

 _Goodbye, doorknob,_ he giggles at his own silliness as he slowly makes his way down the stairs. He notices Joyce walking around the kitchen, making trips back and forth, preparing breakfast. He stands patiently in front of the last step, waiting to be acknowledged. It doesn’t take long for it to happen, for Joyce glances up while bringing the kettle over, raising an eyebrow.

“Good morning, Louis,” she nods at him. “Come sit,” she gestures at a chair and he quickly makes his way to it, delicately pushing it back and gently placing his broken bag by his feet. David comes several minutes later, taking his seat at the head of the table and offering Louis a smile.

“Good morning,” he rasps out, taking his cup of tea and bringing it to his lips. “Sleep well?”

Louis frowns, shrugging. “I figured I did, considering the situation, though it took awfully long to find sleep. You see, my mind was plagued with so many unpleasant thoughts, it was hard to find solace. But counting the stars turned out efficient. Oh!” he looks at the toasted bread, at the butter and apple crab preserve; then at his cup of tea. “I’m pretty hungry this morning, and it’s probably because I’m no more in the depth of despair. I seldom am on mornings, what’s not to like about them? Mornings are cheerful things, and they provide so much scope for imagination that I can’t help but always be positive.”

Joyce sighs, sitting down and staring him down. “For heaven’s sake, hold your tongue, and eat! We have a long trip to do.”

He snaps his mouth shut, his body tensing up and he glances down at the pieces of bread in his plate. Wordlessly, he picks one up and spreads some butter over it, trying to ignore how the mood has dropped in a matter of seconds. Staring at his blank plate doesn’t do much to him, so he glances out of the window and at the blue sky and green fields, so that at least he can rely on his thoughts to keep him entertained.

David clears his throat, rubbing butter over his own brownish piece of bread. “Just so you know, I uh, I’ve sent words to see if that French alpha boy I talked to you about is available through harvest.”

He almost drops his bread on the floor, thankfully catching himself before the catastrophe happens, and his eyes snap to the alpha, who is calmly chewing. _How dare you?_ He wants to scream, his lips pursued. How could David hire an alpha boy already? He isn’t useless, for pity’s sake! Urged by his anger, he abruptly stands up, the legs of his chair scratching the wooden floor, the sound echoing around them. Joyce jumps and leans back, wide eyes looking up at him. He puts both hands on the table, palms flat, and tries to keep his voice at a regular level though, when it comes out of his mouth, it’s louder than he expected and translates his anger — and, deep down, his sadness — quite well.

“I can do _anything_ an alpha can do!” he chokes out, picking up his plate and half-empty cup of tea. “I can wash, dust, iron, sweep, milk the cows, collect the eggs, mend the fences, split wood,” he says in one breath, rounding the table to take Joyce’s empty plate. “I can cook, stitch, paint, plough, harvest and do so many other things. There’s no limit to what I can accomplish.”

He hurries to the sink, which is split in two, and puts the dirty plates down into one side. Then, he goes to the kettle and grabs it, covering its handle with a thick piece of cloth and using both hands to carry it to the sink, and he pours the steaming hot water over what must be washed, the sink filling up. He’ll let everything soak up until it’s easier to wash it all, and until the water has cooled down enough for him to not burn himself. In the meantime, he fetches David’s empty plate while the alpha puts his hat on and goes outside. Joyce is still sitting at the table, gazing at him with an unreadable expression. Then she stands up, tilting her head in thoughts.

“Make sure to use plenty of water, and to dry everything thoroughly. I have enough to attend to this morning. We’ll drive over to Mrs. Spencer in the afternoon. Be ready by then.”

His hands stop rubbing the cutlery after her words have gone through his mind, and it’s only when she steps out of the house, leaving him on his own, that he carries on the task, the corners of his lips turned down. His skin quickly prunes up after staying too long in the water, and when the last fork is polished and sparkling clean, does he dry his hands and drags his feet to the table. He sits down and puts his face in his hands, unable to figure out what else to do to convince Joyce that he is worth keeping. The house is as clean as it can get, the laundry is made and the lavender-smelling clothes are drying outside, and both David and Joyce are outside tending to the animals. He’s done his bed already. He sighs and shakes his head... he fears he might die of boredom!

He abruptly stands up and decides to go out-of-doors to visit some more of the world awaiting him. If he is to go back to the orphanage, then he might as well take advantage of the bit of time left before the inevitable departure. He throws open the door and rushes outside, closing his eyes as the sunlight caresses the skin of his face. He spots David near the apple trees, but can’t find Joyce. He considers going over to the alpha to help him out, but then one look at the low-sloped fields has his feet guiding him towards the brook and closer to the woods. A smile dances over his face as he reaches the stream of water, and he crouches down to dip his fingers in the moving water. The sound it makes is like music, mixing up with the chirping of the birds and the clacking of tree branches as they’re disturbed by the cheeky wind. He sits down, tucking his legs underneath him, his palms diving into the plush grass. He doesn’t want to go anywhere; if he could merge with the soil and forever gaze at the sky above, he absolutely would. The cool air makes his fringe fall into his eyes, while ruffling the daisies that have bloomed all over the moors since the first day of Spring. The air here tastes sweet, and is as fresh as any after a rainstorm; it’s so different from Nova Scotia. The ploughed fields and pastures offer a lovely sight after spending his previous years staring at the dry weed tainting the orphanage’s garden.

Up above clouds progress to the north, clear and pristine white, deprived of blotches of dark shades that would announce a rainy day. He can’t tell if he is disappointed that there won’t be any rain; he loves when the heavens above cry over the world, breathing a new whiff of life into it. But then he figures riding in the rain isn’t ideal. _But maybe it would have given you another day at Green Gables._ He frowns at his wicked thought. What use is there in getting acquainted with a place that is, to him, the representation of heaven on earth, when he isn’t to stay there after all? He knows he is hurting himself, more than anything else. He’s seeing and witnessing things that he can’t help loving; and what use is there in loving things and being torn away from them? The less time he spends there, the better.

But there’s so much beauty all around him that he just… can’t bring himself to stay locked inside when it’s so easy to take a step outside and discover every nook and cranny of wonder. He yearns to go into the tightly knit trees of the woods and touch their trunks and maybe get a glimpse of a squirrel, or other woody animals. He’s perfectly happy with running to the unknown, and disappearing through the faint mist in the distance. And he wants to get up and do just that; but he thinks of the Tomlinsons, and how evaporating into thin air won’t solve his problems.

A voice rings from behind him, and he turns around to see Joyce’s flailing arms high up in the air.

“What on earth are you doing?” Joyce calls out, and he scrambles to his feet, cleaning his soil-tainted palms by rubbing them against his trousers. He rushes to her, biting his lip, and she shakes her head. “The mare and the buggy are ready.”

 _Already?_ he wants to whine, but he holds himself back as he follows her to the house, his feet dragging, digging up some soil. David is next to the buggy, preparing it, and with an aching heart he fetches his bag and waits on the porch for Joyce to come back. She doesn’t take long; as she steps out of the house, she has a hat on her head and a shawl draped over her shoulders. She glances at him, sighs, then goes down the stairs, walking briskly to the buggy. He quickly catches up on her and, avoiding the alpha’s gaze, he jumps into the wooden buggy, clutching his bag to his chest.

Despite himself, he still looks to the side at David, and catches the alpha’s wistful eyes. 

“Louis,” he begins carefully, putting his hand on the side of the buggy. “Please know that I didn’t hire the alpha boy to replace you, but it was in hopes that you could stay.”

Louis’ bottom lip begins to tremble and he surges forward, wrapping his arms around the alpha’s neck.

“Thank you,” he breathes out with a smile, inhaling the alpha’s comforting scent.

Joyce huffs.

“We’re going to White Sands, I’ll be back in an hour or so for tea.”

Her voice is dry and Louis has to swallow down a sigh as he straightens up. She slaps the reign and Belle begins to walk, pulling the buggy with her. He glances over his shoulder, watching David’s figure become smaller and smaller the further away they go. He’s glad that tears don’t well up to his eyes; but struggles with the way his heart aches. Unable to bear the shrinking sight of Green Gables, he turns his head so that he’s staring at the path before him. Trees cocoon them as they drive over the defined path, and he gazes at the leaves on the branches that have a tendency to fly whenever the wind has the audacity to pick up its pace. Thistles added spots of purple to the grass, randomly scattered throughout the land; and when he looks through the holes that aren’t filled with leaves, he can see the clover-lush fields roll as far as the eye can see. _I wish I could run through them._

He takes a deep breath and straightens up, and as he replays the memory of clumps of reeds grown along the brook bank, or the way the sun has warmed up his skin alongside the hills, he figures, there’s no need to dwell in the depth of despair. If he makes up his mind to enjoy the ride, then he can heal the gaping wound in the middle of his chest by inhaling the sickeningly sweet air and embellish his imagination with crocuses and wildflowers. He glances at Joyce, who has her eyes firmly set straightforward.

“Despite the situation that warrants the deep sorrow that I feel,” he begins, tucking at a loose thread on his bag. “I’ve made up my mind to enjoy this drive. I won’t think about the asylum throughout the drive and instead, I will focus on the blooming vegetation all around me. I mean— look!” he claps his hands then points at the ground. “Wild roses! They’ve bloomed early. If you hadn’t decided to leave at the time which we left, I might have missed those rare, precious little rose buds; they could have died before I’d set my eyes on them. So in the end, isn’t this drive blessed?”

He sighs, his eyes lingering on the juvenile wild roses. “Such lovely colour. I love pink. It makes me think of the sky at sunrise and sunset. I wish I had a pretty, long, pink dress, or a beautiful pink shirt with puffy sleeves, and maybe a silky bow on the front. But I don't think I’d look good in pink. My hair has got too much red undertone. I’m glad I’m not fully redheaded; but I still think my hair isn’t brown enough. I used to believe, when I was ten or eleven, that my hair might darken as I grow older… but I’m eighteen years old now and hardly anything has changed about me, besides my ever growing knowledge about poetry. I just _love_ poetry. Do you like poetry?”

Joyce glances at him with furrowed brows. “I don’t have time for poetry.”

He frowns. “Well, that is curious. Poetry is words. And we talk all the time, so we use words all the time. It’s foolish to say that you don’t have time for poetry, which means that you don’t have time for words, which in turns means that you don’t have time for talking, but we talk all the time?”

He figures he deserves the look of disbelief Joyce gives him. “Now what in the world are you babbling about? You sound ridiculous. Much like David did, going on about wanting to keep you.”

He frowns, shaking his head. “David isn’t stupid. He is sympathetic, and he doesn’t mind when I talk too much. The moment I saw him, I could tell we were kindred spirits.”

“You’re both queer enough, if that’s what you mean by kindred spirits.”

He cracks a smile at that, shifting so he’s sitting more comfortably. “Will we cross the Lake of Shining Waters?”

“Lake of—,” she begins, then she pursues her lips. “No, we’re not going over Barry’s pond. We’ll take the shore road.”

He lights up. “Does that mean I’ll get to see the ocean up close? Isn’t _ocean_ a wonderful word?”

She doesn’t answer, though he sees her lips twitch in what he can imagine to be a faint smile. They drive in silence for a while, the air rapidly turns bitter the closer to the ocean they get, and he marvels at the squawking of the seagulls. He has a hard time keeping down his excitement, and he closes his eyes as the salt-infused wind ruffles his hair and kisses down his face, down his throat, making goosebumps rack his body. He’s never been to the sea, hasn’t been able to swim such a queer water — why is it salty? And though a part within him breaks at the prospect of being so close to the ocean, but not being able to get in its blue, shining water, another part, bigger and stronger, pumps joy into his veins because at least, he gets to hear the rolling waves as they crash against the rocky surface of the cliff.

“How far away are we?” he wonders aloud, smiling as a seagull soar above their heads.

“Five miles,” she answers, slapping the reins. “And since you’re so keen on talking throughout all five of them, you might as well tell me some useful things about you, about your past.”

He grimaces. “Well, not much is worth telling about me, because nothing is actually interesting, but I can certainly make up a wonderful story. If I had any say in how my life would be, I’d be a prince in a faraway castle that sits atop a great—.”

“Louis,” Joyce cuts in, giving him a warning glare. “I want the truth, not some story you created about yourself. I want blunt facts. Tell me a bit about where you were born and how you ended up in the asylum.”

He sighs and leans against the buggy, pouting slightly. “Fine. I was born in Bolingbroke, Nova Scotia. I turned eighteen last December. I don’t know much about my parents, besides that my father was Carl Austin, and he was a teacher in the Bolingbroke High School. My mother was Lisa Austin, she was also a teacher but stopped working when she got married — I believe an alpha was enough responsibility. I was told they were nice people, but as poor as church mice. They had me an entire year later. Mrs. Thomas was the neighbor and was there when I was born. She used to tell me that I was the scrawniest, tiniest baby she ever saw with big blue eyes, and I cried a lot — _‘you were a loud fucking thing’,_ she’d tell me every once in a while — which, when you consider how much I talk now, isn’t all that surprising. Anyway, my mom died several months later from fever, and my dad followed suit not long after — a week, in fact. He died of heartbreak, I think. Anyway, not even a month old and I was already an orphan, and the town folks were at their wits’ end, so Mrs. Thomas took me under her care and raised me by hand, with her drunkard of a husband. When I was five years old, we moved to Marysville, where I spent two more years with them. I looked after her children, and boy were they a handful. Anyway, I left them when Mr. Thomas died after falling under a train, and Mrs. Thomas didn’t want me no more, so Mrs. Hammond took me under her care for two more years — well, she didn’t really look after me, but _I_ had to look after her eight children. I love babies, but twins three times is just… too much.”

He shivers as he recalls the unpleasant memories of baby puke and piercing cries. “But then, Mr. Hammond died, and Mrs. Hammond was at her wits’ end. She divided her children among her relatives and fucked off to the States,” he ignores Joyce’s _‘watch your mouth, omega’_ and grimaces as he begins telling her about the asylum. “Then I went to the asylum in Hopeton, because no one wanted me, something I’m used to by now. I remained there for nine years until Mrs. Spencer came to fetch me for you.”

Joyce nods, pursing her lips. “Did you ever go to school?”

He nods, a genuine smile appearing on his face. “Yes! I think it’s the only thing that truly helped me not lose my sanity there. Reading is my favourite past-time, and I enjoy figures; maths is fun, when you understand it,” his smile dims a little. “But I was forced to stop at sixteen… only alphas could continue studying; we began learning how to stitch and cook. I almost set the kitchen on fire.”

He blinks, then flushes. “And… If you can forget that last part, that’d be great.”

Joyce smiles, her eyebrow raising. “Jutting that down in a corner of my brain; don’t want you setting my kitchen on fire.”

“Not a chance if I ain’t gonna stay at Green Gables,” he shrugs, drawing his bag closer to his chest. Joyce doesn’t say anything at that. The sorrel mare rounds a corner, arriving on the shore road. Instantly, his mood is lifted up as the steep red sandstone cliffs come in sight, and with it the loud and unforgiving roar of the waves. He closes his eyes and appreciates the melody. Joyce clears her throat.

“Did they treat you well, Mrs. Thomas and Mrs. Hammond?” she asks, glancing at Louis out of the corner of her eyes, instantly focusing back on the road.

“Uhm,” he gulps, blinking his eyes open, staring blankly at the mess of woods on either side of them, thick scrub firs bending over in odd patterns, broken in by years of fighting with the wind. “I’m sure they meant to be nice, but you see,” he falters, his mind thinking back to the sting that Mrs. Thomas’ hand’s left after colliding with his cheek, or the way dust would fly into his face as Mr. Hammond pushed him in the dirt, eyes dark with anger. “It is quite challenging to deal with a husband that perpetually drinks, or three sets of twins — oh! I’m sure they meant to be good to me.”

He hates the pity that befalls Joyce’s face, though he’s glad that she doesn’t ask anymore questions; he fears the tears might have actually started pouring out of his eyelids had she made any more inquiry about his past. He doesn’t like to think about a world that doesn’t want him. 

The buggy doesn’t drive close enough to the edge for him to get a glimpse of the bottom; but he can picture the rocky base of the cliffs as they’re hit with the frosting waves. Overhead, seagulls soar through the endless pool of blue that is the sky, sprinkled with white clouds, and their pinions catch the sunlight whenever they move. He watches them, thinking that he wouldn’t mind being a gull. He can imagine the feeling of freedom that comes with flying, and being able to go anywhere one’s heart desires without being held back; the feeling of having a _choice,_ which is something he’s never experienced and might never ever experience. He didn’t choose for his parents to die, or to be taken under Mrs. Thomas’ wings; or to be adopted by Mrs. Hammond, then thrown at the asylum’s door. If he had had a choice, a real one, he’d have gone back to his childhood’s house to live there and grow the most beautiful garden. He’d be happy and in a safe environment then.

He refuses to think too much about the asylum lest his mood darken. Instead, he spots a big house in the distance, and he points at it, his heart stopping. “Whose house is that?”

Joyce hums, blinking. “That’s the White Sands Hotel, run by Mr. Kirke. There isn’t much activity in spring, but come summer this area will be crammed with americans.”

He relaxes upon knowing that the house doesn’t belong to Mrs. Spencer — he doesn’t want to get to it just yet, and would like to enjoy Avonlea some more. He fears the world might end the moment he’s dropped off with Mrs. Spencer, and urged onto the train to go back to that gloomy place he called home for nine years.

The relief is short-lived though, for Mrs. Spencer’s house comes into view. It’s big and yellow, situated at White Sands Cove, and looks beautiful among blooming rose buds and well-loved orchids. _I want a house just like that,_ he can’t help thinking, biting his bottom lip in anticipation as Joyce stirs the buggy to the side. _Please, Joyce, let’s go back to Green Gables._ His plea gets lost in the abyss of his conscience as he jumps off the wooden thing, going next to Belle and patting her soft, big head while Joyce ties her around one of the fence's wooden boards. 

“I’m going to miss you, pretty girl,” he whispers, kissing the side of her head then hurrying behind Joyce. They walk to the little gate, spotting Mrs. Spencer tending to her flowers. Gloves cover hands, which she takes off the moment her eyes fall on them. Surprise colours her expression, and she holds her wide-brimmed straw hat as she walks to them, her eyes glancing between them. Louis looks down, wishing with all his might that he’ll wake up to find out that everything that’s currently happening is only a dream and he’s still in bed, at Green Gables.

“My!” she exclaims, wiping at her cheek, smudging dark brown soil over her pale complexion instead of cleaning it. “You’re the last person I expected to see today! Though I’m pleased to see you, Mrs. Tomlinson,” she looks at him. “Louis,” she smiles, bringing her hands together in front of her skirt. “How are you doing?”

 _Not fine. I feel like it’s the end of the world._ He keeps his expression devoid of emotions as he answers. “I’m fine.”

The tone of his voice is dry, dejected, which she notices, looking at Joyce in stupor. Joyce sighs, pursing her lips.

“This won’t take long,” she announces, gesturing at Louis. “It’s just— it seems there has been a queer mistake, and I came here to find out how it occurred. David and I sent words for an alpha boy. We told your brother that we wanted an alpha boy of about seventeen to eighteen years old.”

Mrs. Spencer blanches, her mouth dropping open. “What? Say that is not so Mrs. Tomlinson! I’m dreadfully sorry!” she gushes in distress, shaking her head. “Robert sent words down by his daughter Nancy that you wanted an omega boy! Didn’t she say so, Flora Jane?” she turns to her daughter, who nods in earnest.

“She certainly did!”

Mrs. Spencer nods. “This misunderstanding is certainly not my fault. I thought I was following your instructions, and I thought Louis perfectly fitted to your taste. Nancy is a terribly headless omega, and I’ve had to scold her more than once for it.”

Joyce raises her hand. “It’s our fault, we should have come ourselves instead of letting such an important message be passed along by word of mouth. The mistake has been made, in any case, and it’s only proper to set the situation right. Is it possible to send the omega back to the asylum? They will take him back, won’t they?”

He doesn’t like being talked about as if he were nothing more than a pain in the neck, which he probably is, and the thought makes him look down.

“Probably…” Mrs. Spencer begins. “But that won’t be necessary. You see, Mrs. Peter Blewett has been looking for an omega to help her around the house and with her children, and she’d expressed her regret of not asking me to bring back one. Louis will be perfect for her.”

 _Hell no,_ he internally sighs, glancing at Joyce. He sees a frown on her face.

“Let’s go see her, then,” she concludes, and Louis has to hold himself from whirling around and jumping off the cliff.

Mrs. Spencer guides them out of the garden, and they walk for five minutes or so, to a small, gloomy house that reminds Louis a lot of the asylum. Mrs. Spencer babbles away, while Joyce listens — and he’s two seconds away from passing out as he hears the shrill cry of a baby piercing through the air. The air is stale with the scent of dripping-wet clothes drying under the sun, and wooden beams rotting away. He shivers as he spots a baby in a cot, the thing made out of wood, white paint chipped in several places. The baby’s face is scrunched up, red, wet with tears and mucus and his heart aches and his fingers tickle with the need to grab it and calm it down, a desire that has deep-rooted itself within him after years spent looking after children. 

Mrs. Blewett is a thin, shrewish-faced omega with a stern expression perpetually etched on her face. One look at her and it isn’t difficult to guess what kind of woman she is; she must be strict, hard, short-tempered, and he shivers as they draw nearer to her. He can tell it’ll be hell to live with her, and he hopes with all his might and main that a miracle will happen to hinder that particular turn of events.

“Mrs. Blewett!” Mrs. Spencer exclaims, waving her handkerchief in the air. She earns an unimpressed glare from Mrs. Blewett in return, who is folding clothes and dropping them into a straw basket.

Joyce glances over her shoulder at him, as if to make sure he hasn’t run off, then urges him forward with a brisk gesture of the hand. _I’m coming, relax,_ he silently huffs, clutching the handle of his carpet bag tighter.

Mrs. Spencer gestures at him with a beaming smile. “I remember you telling me yesterday that you wished for an omega boy to help ‘round the house! I know he is older than what you expected, but he’s lovely. Mrs. Tomlinson doesn’t have use for him. Come, boy,” she tells him, moving her fingers quickly, forcing him to follow her order. He stands by her side, mildly uncomfortable as Mrs. Blewett’s eyes fly over him from head to toe, her head tilted to the side in thought.

“How old are you, and what’s your name?” she demands, narrowing her eyes at him. She makes him think of a snake that’s ready to coil around his neck and squeeze him to death. He gulps, paling.

“Louis Austin,” he answers, voice low, throat trembling. “And I’m eighteen.”

She hums. “You seem wiry. Do you have experience with children? I’m at wits’ end with that one,” she just her chin towards the crying baby.

He’s tempted to say, _no, I’ve never deal with children before,_ but he doesn't want to lie in front of Mrs. Tomlinson. So he nods, gesturing weakly at the baby. “That’s a colic cry.”

Mrs. Blewett blinks. “A what now?”

“A colic cry,” he repeats, shrugging. “He’s crying for the sake of crying. It’ll stop eventually.”

She nods slowly. “Well, Mrs. Tomlinson, if you don’t want him I might as well take him off your hands. Might be of use around there. But listen, boy. You have to earn your keep. I don’t want no lazy ass under my roof. Mrs. Tomlinson, if you like, I can take him right now.”

The world around him stops spinning as he waits for Joyce’s answer. He looks at her, finding her eyes already on him. She seems to soften as the sight of his big, wide-open panicked eyes and distressed expression. 

“Well,” Joyce begins, setting her eyes on the bored-omega hovering over them from where she stands on the porch. “I didn’t say that David and I had absolutely decided not to keep him. In fact, David is pretty inclined towards keeping him. I just came over to understand where the mistake had been made, that is all. I can’t possibly decide anything without consulting him first! If we decide he’s not for us in the end, we’ll bring him over. If not, then you can assume he’ll be staying with us. Is that alright by you, Mrs. Blewett?”

Louis looks at her with his mouth hanging open, hope making a rosy blush appear on the apples of his cheeks, his body waking up, fueled by excitement.

“I suppose it’ll have to,” Mrs. Blewett sneers, huffing as she opens the door and kicks the straw basket inside.

“Right,” Joyce licks her lips. “Well, good day to you. Mrs. Spencer,” she nods at the stunned woman, taking Louis by the elbow and dragging him away from the sad-looking garden. All the way to the buggy, he keeps his amazed eyes on Joyce, a smile on his face. He can’t even speak, too speechless over the turnaround. Did Joyce just say they’re considering keeping him? Did he dream about everything? It wouldn’t be surprising; he tends to dive into his imagination to escape the ugly reality. But as he jumps into the buggy while Joyce unties Belle, and as they begin to drive away, White Sands Cove growing smaller as they near the shore road, it becomes more and more obvious that he isn’t dreaming and he is, indeed, not going to live with that witch. 

He turns towards Joyce, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “Mrs. Tomlinson? Did you really say that perhaps you would let me stay at Green Gables?” he shakily manages to get out, sniffing and wiping away the first few drops of salty water that have begun pouring out of his eyelids. “Or did I imagine that you said it and we’re currently on our way to the train station, because Mrs. Blewett doesn’t want me? Did I imagine that she wanted me at all?

Joyce huffs. “You better tie both your feet to the earth, because you’re getting carried away by your imaginings,” she sighs. “Yes, I did say that, but don’t say anything more about it. It isn’t decided. We might turn you out-door and send you to Mrs. Blewett. She certainly needs you more than I do.”

He struggles containing his beaming smile. “You have no idea of how happy I am to go back to Green Gables. In fact, I’d rather go back to the asylum than live with Mrs. Blewett. Taking care of children is something I do not look forward to, especially under _her_ care. She makes me think of a witch, who keeps toad legs in a jaw and spit in her chauldron because it’s got magic properties. Or… or a witch that’d give me an apple to kill me. You know, like in Snow White? I never got to read the book, unfortunately, but one of the older omegas told me about it. It was written by the Brothers Grimm.”

Joyce smothers a smile, giving him a stern glare. “I don’t know what your nonsense means, but you should be ashamed of talking in such a fashion about a stranger. Now be quiet, I can’t hear myself thinking over your babblings.”

Louis beams, straightening up and glancing at the endless blue; be it the sky or the sea, both are worth gazing at, and he’s infinitely glad that he gets to enjoy such a sight again. He has the horrible feeling that, had Joyce left him with Mrs. Blewett, he would have never been able to come back to the red cliff, kept back by the children and the strength of her grip. He lets his carpet bag fall to the bottom of the buggy, not caring that it falls open, and draws his knees to his chest; and on them, he rests his cheek, and lets his eyes take in the shadows cast over the water by the sunlight flashing over the gulls, or the mess of woods that clog his vision as they leave the shore road. His body is thrumming with excitement, and joy, and something that he’s glad to be feeling, because he’s always craving it; _hope._

Hope makes his cheeks flush, makes his smile genuine, makes imagination run wild with all the possibilities fostered by the beautiful realization that he’s indeed going to stay at Green Gables, which is his ideal representation of Heaven on earth. But it’s not just the place that pours happiness in his heart, though delight pumps through his veins when he thinks about the giant cherry-tree’s boughs waving across his window, or the far away brook with its glistening clear water; it’s also the fact that he’ll get to stay with the Tomlinsons, who seem to be nice, caring persons, even Joyce. And for the first time, a family isn’t that absurd of an idea; for the first time, his longing for stability isn’t as out of reach as it had been before he met the Tomlinsons.

He hopes he isn’t torn away from them anytime soon.

  
  


-

  
  


The morning blush, distinguished by its hues of orange, yellow, purple and magenta pink, grows over the rolling meadows of Avonlea, accompanied by the crows of roosters and the heavy breathing of cattle. The rosy glow progresses to Green Gables, pierces through the boughs of the cherry-tree that has, in the night, poured a bucket of pinkish blossoms over the damp soil, and filters through the quaint windows; and for the second time, he wakes up in the gable room while the gloom is being chased away by the sunrise, and instantly, he smiles.

Boots patter about downstairs, the sound travelling up the staircase, reaching him, making him aware that the Tomlinsons have woken up already. It isn’t surprising; farm work calls for early hours, and with a bounce in his steps, he gets ready, throwing on his clothes, thrusting his feet in his boots, and nearly rolling down the stairs from his haste to get to the kitchen.

“Splending morning!” he shouts, a huge smile on his face, startling Joyce so much that she nearly drops a plate full of boiled eggs. She gives him a glare that could chop butter, but it only increases his good mood; and to say he would have never enjoyed Joyce’s passive-aggressive nature, had he been sent back to the asylum, or worse, left to the Blewett’s gutter! He flies past Joyce, her mouth opening to say something, but he’s already out of the door and stepping outside before she can.

The air is sweet from the apple orchard and the pollen that waltzes out of the cherry-trees. He hums to himself as he grabs a straw basket, and skips to the chicken coop, opening the door and sneezing as heaps of dust and chicken feathers fly to his face — _Goodness’ sake,_ he thinks, waving his hand in front of him. He hopes it isn’t too obvious that he isn’t used to doing farm work; but he figures looking after chicken is like looking after babies, only they don’t cry or puke… or so he hopes chickens don’t puke! He blinks at the animals comfortably nestled in pillows of straw, and he begins wrestling with them to grab the eggs. He manages to fill the basket nicely, then he stumbles out of the coop, brandishing the basket and nearly sending the eggs to their graves.

“I got it!” he shouts when he spots David looking at him in both awe and worry. He whistles and jumps onto the porch, opening the door and putting the basket full of egg down. Joyce stops, blinks at it, then stares at him. With a faux-annoyed sigh, she reaches out and plucks a feather that has gotten stuck in his hair.

“Compose yourself,” she tells him sternly. “What omega behaves that way? You’ve got feathers all over your hair,” she raises an eyebrow at the basket. “Well, thank you for that. Now please, clean yourself up, breakfast is almost ready.”

He hums then goes up the stairs, going to the bathroom. There’s a mirror hanging above a basin, and the sight that meets him is one of a young man with rosy cheeks, freckles dusting the better part of his face, blue eyes twinkling in the soft morning light. With a tiny smile he takes off all the feathers, gathering them and bringing them to his carpet bag. He drops them in the thin fabric, then goes to the window, leaning his weight on his elbows, which rest on the windowsill. The thin brook is noticeable in the distance, cocooned between plant ferns, yellowed by the morning sun. He can see David near the apple trees, checking them out, his tall figure topped off by a hat. He licks his lips and reaches forward to caress the soft blooms of the cherry-tree. The gentle breeze makes the branches move, and blossoms fall to the ground, startling against the dark colour of the soil. He sighs happily, humming a lullaby that he’s learnt in the orphanage, and which has, more than once, helped him relax.

_The willow tree hears a young maid singing,_

_Its boughs bending to the gentle melody,_

_Its blossoms follow the steps in the soil,_

_Carried by the wind of melancholy._

Just as he is about to go back downstairs, he sees a curious shadow disturbing the peaceful landscape; squinting, he tries to make out who it might be, for a second fearing that Mrs. Spencer has come back to take him away from Green Gables. The dread spreads to his toes, making him dizzy, and he whirls around, tucking on his shirt. Suddenly, it’s too hot, and he holds his breath, waiting for a hubbub to occur downstairs; maybe the shrill voice of Mrs. Spencer mixing up with Joyce’s sternness. _What is Mrs. Blewett is here, too?_ He pales and feels like throwing up. He looks down at himself, grimacing at the holes in his boots and the creases in his trousers, but he doesn’t have time to ponder too much over them for he hears the door open, and close.

_Might as well go downstairs, Louis. It won’t do you any good to put the inevitable off._

He gulps and wipes his clammy hands as he slowly makes his way to the living room, stopping short when he sees who it is that is sitting in the chair. He’s relieved because Mrs. Spencer is nowhere in sight; instead, a curvy woman is glaring at Joyce, her lips pursued. Her salt-pepper hair is drawn in a tight low bun, the top of her head covered by a small, delicate hat. Her fingers drum a nervous rhythm on the table and he wants to beg her to stop because the movement is making _him_ nervous, which is probably obvious as he stands, frozen, at the bottom of the staircase, eyes on the stranger.

“You ought to send that omega back, is what I’m saying,” the newcomer huffs, shaking her head. “Nothing good comes from adopting some lowly-born omega that comes from God-knows where. You really, totally ought to send him back.”

“Rachel—,” Joyce stops, noticing him. He smiles tentatively as Rachel turns her head, her assessing eyes falling onto him.

“My!” she exclaims, her hand going to her prominent bosom. She undresses him with her eyes. “Well, they certainly did not pick you for your looks!” she frowns, staring with ardour at his face, and his heart drops to his guts, his smile disappearing. “What on earth do you have on your face — freckles? My, they could pass for pimples! And your hair is nearing carrot-red, thank the Lord he didn’t make you a total redhead — how unfortunate that would be! Joyce,” she turns to Joyce, who has been looking at Rachel in warning. “How horribly skinny and homely he is!”

His mouth has dropped open upon hearing such harsh, mean words being spoken aloud in his presence, and soon bubbles of anger appear in his body, and a needle is being held against them, ready to press to make them explode. He tries to calm down, to contain himself, to stand above the insults — they’re nothing he hasn’t heard before —, but still, as tears sting his eyes and his nostrils flare, he can’t help but clench his fists, his mouth opening. Vile, but truthful words pour out of his lips. 

“I hate you,” he spits, his cheeks flushing. “I fucking hate you! How dare you call me ugly and skinny? What is the matter with you? You’re rude and impolite, and I won’t let myself be treated that way by some… by some stranger! Screw you!”

“Louis!” Joyce exclaims, gasping at the words, her eyes widening. But he doesn’t stop; he isn’t quite ready to do so. He wants to hurt Rachel as much as she hurt him; wants her to feel even an ounce of what her words have sparked within him. With blazing eyes, shaky hands, and his scent turning bitter, kneeling to the strength of his anger, he continues expressing his indignation.

“How wretched you must be to talk like that to somebody you don’t even know!” he screams, Mrs. Rachel’s mouth hanging open in unfiltered shock. “How would you like to be told that you’re fat, disrespectful, and stern and unoriginal — How would you like it? Don’t even answer! I do not care if I hurt your feelings with my words, because yours have hurt me greatly, and the wound they’ve left in my chest won’t heal anytime soon! I hate you, and I won’t forgive you for the pain you’ve caused me!”

He storms out of the house, Joyce’s loud _‘Louis!’_ ringing behind him, getting carried far, far away by the wind. He runs until his calves burn, until his chest is rising quickly, until the wet skin of his face cools down as the breeze slaps at his pink cheeks. Lilac flowers scratch as his trousers, crunch underneath his soles, but he doesn’t care; he never stops running, not to catch his breath, not to collapse onto the damp soil. He wants to be as far away from that unfeeling woman as possible, until he can hear himself think, and until the wrath storming within him can quietly go away. He doesn’t register where he is going, mind set solemnly on one single goal; finding a place shielded from the cruel world, a place where he can feel safe, and not be judged for the way he looks.

Why are people so quick on judging others? What beauty is there in hurting people’s feelings? He might talk too much, and dream too much, and he might be annoying from time to time — but does that mean he doesn’t deserve being given the chance to prove himself a decent person? Is he truly a wretched being, doomed to be mocked and scorned for the rest of his life? Tears gush out of his eyelids even more, and with a quick gesture of the hand, he slaps away the mess of leaves that are about to slap him in the face. He progresses further into the depth of the woods, dodging thin, thick tree trunks, scratching the skin of his hands. He tries not to think of Joyce, of how angry at him she must be — he humiliated her in front of her friend, and guilt begins to taint his thoughts, until he can picture himself sat at the back of a buggy, on its way to the train station.

When he stops, the air has got a sprinkle of purity that he manages to enjoy despite his wretchedness. He leans against the nearest tree trunk, and slides down it, the rough surface scratching the fabric of his shirt and the damp soil wetting his trousers. He doesn’t care one bit about any of it. Instead, he draws his knees to his chest and circles them with his arms, his chin resting over the hard bones; then he cries some more. The salty drops, as they fall in random places over the fabric covering his legs, turn the spots darker, and he focuses on them to calm himself down. _Get yourself together!_ he mentally scolds, taking deep breaths and counting to ten repeatedly. _One, two, free, four…_ He can do this! His lips have turned dry from running so fast through the fields and having the spring-sweet wind dry up his skin; but he licks them once, and they feel better, softer. His anger blurs out until it’s only a stain in his consciousness. _Who cares for Mrs. Rachel’s opinion?_ he huffs, fingers gripping the grass and tearing thin strands of green straight out of the soil. _I know my worth. I’m clever — that’s more she can ever hope to be._

He doesn’t know how long he remains sat at the bottom of a tree, with dirty fingers rubbing soil into his clothes; but at one point, clouds thicken, and the sun has gone further to the west, hovering over the horizon line. He guesses it must be 3:00pm, and as his lower belly gurgles in hunger, he figures it’s about time he goes back to Green Gables, and faces Joyce’s wrath. He looks around in wordless sadness, plucking a bunch of daisies and holding them to his chest. If he is to go back to the asylum, or worse, to Mrs. Blewett’s, he might as well bring beautiful things back with him, just so that whenever he feels down, he has got something to look at to cheer him up.

He stands up and slowly begins to make his way back to the house, though it becomes fairly obvious that he has lost his way. Though the air is sweet from faraway fields of apple trees, he still stands, stunned, in the middle of the woods, glancing around himself in frantic panic. _Where am I supposed to go?_ The canopy is too thick to even see the sky properly; and all around him tree trunks stretch as far as the eyes can see — or well, as far as _his_ eyes can see. _Am I about to remain there forever, and die without having bed farewell to Green Gables? Will Joyce and David wonder about my disappearing in such a fashion?_ His fingers clench around the bouquet of daisies, and he can feel a lump come right up to his throat, clogging it up until he can’t breathe. He looks all around himself and decides to progress further south, hoping to come across the shore road, from which he’ll be able to find his way back to Green Gables — he only needs to get out of those woods before a wolf, or worse, a grizzly bear, comes out of nowhere to kill him.

 _Are there bears in Canada?_ he wonders, lips twitching. Wolves are like dogs, he figures, albeit more ferocious and perhaps more likely to hunger for his flesh. But they can pass for dogs, and he’s dealt with a great deal of them in his life, so he might get out of an encounter with one just fine. But a bear? If they’re anything like he’s read and been told, then he had better dig a nice hole in the ground, big enough to fit his body. He sniffs and caresses a tree trunk as he walks past it, the rough surface scratching the thin palm of his skin. He has no idea of how long he walks, but he stops short when something cracks behind him, his heart stopping. _This is it,_ he thinks in bitter frightfulness. _This is when I die! Goodbye, world! You haven’t been kind to me — but you certainly provided scope for imagination, which I am awfully glad for!_

“May I help you?” a voice rings from behind him, and he shivers whirling around, brandishing his silly bouquet of daisies before him, as if they would protect him from an attack. He relaxes slightly when he sees that he hasn’t been addressed by a bear — a thought that _should_ have been brushed to the side from how ridiculous it is! — but by a handsome, young omega that looks to be his age. Raven-dark hair frame a face with features as delicate as the moonlight, and when he looks down, he is greeted by welcoming, kind brown eyes sprinkled with dews of honey.

He flounders for several seconds, slowly lowering his hands, flushing in embarrassment. The stranger is fighting trying to keep in his amused smile. “I’ve never seen you around here before,” he continues, trying to coax Louis into speaking. Which he does, reminded, as he gazes at the trees, that he is in fact lost and that stranger might be kind enough to show him the way back to Green Gables. He lights up, beaming and licking his lips.

“That’s because I’m not… from around here, I mean. But if you’d be so kind so as to point me the way to Green Gables, I’d be forever grateful.”

The stranger frowns, tilting his head. “Green Gables? Sure. You have to continue walking, you’ll end up on a mud path, then you round the apple orchard and you’ll find Green Gables.”

He nods, ready to take off towards the direction which the stranger pointed at, but then he stops, reminding his manners.

“I’m so terribly sorry for how rude I am behaving,” he begins in earnest, bringing his hands together. “The panic I felt when I realised I was lost is lingering within me. I live at Green Gables. I’m—”

“Louis Austin,” he’s cut off by the stranger, who shrugs. “You’ve been the hot topic of the week. Joyce and David Tomlinson adopting an omega! We never thought that’d happen, though I am glad to finally meet you at last. It gets lonely around there. I’m Zayn Malik. I live at Orchard Slope.”

He gestures randomly to their surroundings, and Louis softens, humming in understanding.

“I get you,” he watches as the stranger begins walking, gesturing for him to follow, which he does eagerly. “I didn’t know folks were talking about me.” 

Zayn gives him a look full of disbelief. “Avonlea hasn’t seen anything new in years, so an orphan omega from Nova Scotia coming over there is definitely enough juice to fuel the gossip for the upcoming months.”

He purses his lips, not sure he is all that happy that people are talking about him in his back, especially when he hasn’t met the better half of them. “Well, I hope they’re saying only good things.”

Zayn looks at him for several seconds. “Don’t hope too much, though if you get on Rachel Lynde’s good side, you can rest assured that the rest of the town will hold you in kind regards.”

His heart drops to his toes and he looks down at his boots, noticing how miserable they look compared to Zayn’s shiny, perfectly well-kept, expensive shoes. In fact, Zayn is dressed in a silky shirt with puffy sleeves, a pair of high-waisted trousers that show off his lean figure; and golden jewels shine under the sunshine. He looks beautiful. Louis’ mood drops even more. How can he befriend someone so stunning? And is Rachel Lynde truly so influential? What must she think after his behaviour earlier? He’ll become the most hated person in all Avonlea! Zayn must notice his silence, for Zayn walks closer to him until he can bump his shoulder against his.

“What’s the matter?” Zayn asks, voice gentle, as they exit the wood, suddenly cocooned by apple trees. Blossoms fly all around them as the delicate breeze takes them far, far away beyond the horizon. He looks up and marvels at the clear sky. 

“Nothing,” he breathes out, the word disappearing out of sight alongside the petals. “I’m glad I met you!”

Zayn smiles. “Me too. It’s nice having someone my age living so close. I’m tired to have to listen to Safaa — my little sister — whine all day long, so having some company around there will be such a thrill.”

Suddenly, he is seized by the realization that Zayn might become the best friend he’s always yearned for; and unable to restrain himself, he stops and turns to the omega, who continues walking until he notices that Louis is no more by his side. Zayn glances at him, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

“Do you think…” he begins, unsure. “Do you think we could meet up again? Maybe… in two days?”

Zayn’s face softens and a genuine smile spreads across his face. “Of course, Louis! I would love to. I’ll even bring some books with me… well, assuming that you like reading!” Zayn scrunches up his nose. “Or else I’m not sure this friendship will last,” he adds teasingly.

He gasps, his eyes widening. “I _adore_ books! I do admit I haven’t read many, because in the asylum there weren’t many; only a few classics. But reading is my second most favourite thing to do in the world, after imagining.”

They begin walking again, Green Gables appearing in the distance in all its glory. They both slow down, wanting to lengthen their conversation as much as possible. He’s glad for that; he’s not sure he is quite ready to face Joyce’s wrath. He still has to figure out what he’s going to say to get on her good side again.

“Imagining?” Zayn parrots in quiet wonder. “Now that’s an interesting hobby. Reading is my number one favourite hobby, and I can’t possibly consider imagining as my second; I terribly lack creativity.”

“It’s alright,” he tells the other omega, caressing the white petals of the daisies. “I have enough imagination for the both of us. My brain never stops! As I gaze at the apple trees and Green Gables in the distance, I can imagine myself a beautiful prince running through the meadows, with spring flowers in my hair and rouge over my lips. And Green Gables can be a tall castle dusted in white, with the sun shining from behind it; such splendor! And you’d be my neighbouring best friend, Prince Malik of Orchard Slope, and we’d meet up in the dead of the night by the brook, to dip our toes in the cold water.”

He stops, taking a deep breath and smiling brightly at Zayn. “Sorry,” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his head. “I tend to get carried away.”

“Please don’t ever apologize for being creative,” Zayn smiles. “I think that’s a wonderful trait of your personality. You’re a queer omega, Louis. And I’m glad for that!”

At the brook they part, promising to meet up in two days at the brook. Louis walks backwards to keep on waving at his (potentially) new friend, and when Zayn’s figure disappears in the woods again, he spins around and makes a dash for Green Gables, slowing down to a trot, apprehension blooming within him. He doesn’t see David as he walks past the stable. The house isn’t quiet as he enters it; he can hear Joyce talking to David, her voice frantic.

“Maybe he’s at the cliff. He likes the sight of the ocean.”

“I’ll go look for him,” David announces, but he’s stopped by Joyce.

“He’ll come back when he’s ready, don’t worry.”

Silence. He closes the door so slowly that it doesn’t make a sound as the lock falls into place. He bites his lip and waits some more, waiting for Joyce to tell David that she’s at wits’ end with him and wants to send him back to the asylum.

Instead, Joyce comes barreling into the kitchen, stopping short when she sees him. Her entire shoulders drop in relief.

“David, he’s here!” she shouts, her eyes never leaving him. “Louis, you scared the living hell out of us! Don’t you go running off like that ever again!”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Tomlinson,” he tells her, lowering his head in shame. “I lost my temper, and I know I shouldn’t have, and I am dreadful sorry to have caused you worry.”

He hears her sigh. “It’s not me you ought to apologize to, but Mrs. Lynde!”

He looks up and watches as she puts the kettle on, making sure the fire is strong enough. _What?_ How can she ask him to do such an impossible thing! He can’t possibly forgive someone who has mocked and belittled him! He steps to the side as she opens the door, and he hurries after her, dropping the bouquet of daisies in his distress.

“You can’t possibly ask me to apologize to Mrs. Lynde after she hurt my feelings in such a fashion!” he exclaims indignantly, following her to the cows. “She’s a mean, unfeeling woman!”

“She is a stranger to you, and older to you; you must respect her,” Joyce snaps back, sitting by a cow, sliding a bucket underneath its udder, and beginning to milk it.

“She’s a bully,” he fumes, leaning against the wood and crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t want to apologize to her. I can’t even _imagine_ myself doing it.”

“Well, how unfortunate!” Joyce huffs. “Because if your imagination isn’t in better working order by tomorrow afternoon, then I’m not sure you really want to remain at Green Gables at all!”

Louis freezes and stomps his foot in anger. He could apologize to Mrs. Lynde if it’s the only way for him to get the one-way ticket to Green Gables he’s been yearning so much for. But he can’t even fathom the idea — it’s too ridiculous. The embarrassment he’ll have to endure when he’ll be in front of her, begging for her forgiveness, after telling that wretched woman that he’ll never find it in his heart to give her a second chance! He glares at Joyce’s back then storms out of the barn, running past David to the house. He doesn’t waste time going up the stairs and to the east gable room, slamming its door shut. With a frustrated cry, he jumps face first into the bed, letting the pillow muffle his screams.

The only consolation he has is the friend he found in Zayn Malik, and it’s to the thought of the black-haired omega that he falls asleep, exhausted from the eventful day, eager to dive into a world of dreams where he’s accepted by the folks of Avonlea.

  
  


-

  
  


He’s looking out of the window, pouting at the mocking sun and daunting cherry-tree, when the door opens and in comes David. The alpha gulps and smacks his lips, shifting onto the soles of his boots in apparent nervousness. He glances at David, waiting for the alpha to say something. 

“You don’t think you should, uh,” he begins, munching on his bottom lip, round blue eyes looking at him, tender, gentle, fatherly. “Smooth things over, y’know?”

Louis’ lips twitch, a tiny small appearing on his face. “Apologize, you mean?”

David nods. “Even if you don’t totally mean it, you can just get it over with. It’s terribly lonely without you downstairs.”

Warmth spreads across his chest, creeps up his neck, pulls the corners of his lips up until he’s beaming. David winks at him then slides out of the room as quietly as he came in, and the omega is left to ponder on what he’s going to do. It’s been several days already since he locked himself in his room, brooding over the entire situation. Joyce brings his meals three times a day, but doesn’t mutter a single word as she leaves the tray at his door, knocking sharply on the door and leaving. He finds it hard to swallow anything, especially since he is plagued by thoughts of the asylum and Mrs. Blewett. He might as well apologize to Mrs. Lynde, even though her forgiveness means as much as bird shit to him, so that he can stay at Green Gables and satisfies Joyce. In the end, after spending hours figuring out his feelings, he is _sorry._ He is sorry to have embarrassed Joyce in front of her friend (he has yet to figure out how Joyce ended up friends with someone like Rachel, they’re polar opposites!) and he is sorry to have put at risks his position regarding Green Gables.

He gets dressed slowly, putting his legs through his stiff trousers, thrusting his arms in his shirt’s sleeves. He has managed to rub the soil off the fabrics, though it’s still tainted in some places. He looks into the small mirror on the wall, tries to comb his hair into submission, fingers caressing the freckles over his cheeks. He doesn’t think too much about them and flies out of the room, humming to himself.

Joyce is, as is her wont, in the kitchen, the delicious aroma of baked caramelized apples filling the air. David is spreading butter over his toasted bread, winking at him, and he swallows down a smile. He waits several seconds to compose himself then he clears his throat, Joyce instantly looking at him.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper and acted rude towards Mrs. Lynde. I’m willing to go and apologize to her.”

Though Joyce’s face doesn’t move all that much, and remains quite stern, he can tell she is pleased.

“Very well,” she tells him, soothing out her white apron. “We’ll go over to Rachel’s as soon as we’ve eaten.”

He nods and walks to his usual seat, grabbing a piece of bread and putting a good amount of apple crab preserve. He dips it into his tea and takes a bite out of it, humming and chewing happily. He might not be particularly fond of having to apologize to Mrs. Lynde, but the morning is stunning, and by overcoming his bitter feelings for Rachel, then not only he’ll go up in Joyce’s estime, but he’ll also get to remain at Green Gables. It’s a win-win situation. And, Mrs. Lynde will be able to tell all the folks about his being a mature omega. He smiles at the thought, and Joyce notices.

“What are you smiling about, Louis?” she asks, buttering her toast, eyes dancing with curiosity but also, something he suspects to be suspicion. 

“Nothing,” he smiles, sipping his tea. “Just imagining what I’ll say to Mrs. Lynde.”

Breakfast goes by quickly, and in the blink of an eye they’re on their way to the Lyndes. Joyce has put on her hat, and has draped her shawl over her shoulders, and is holding her dress slightly above the ground, heels digging into the soil. He remains silent next to her, caressing the soft bushes and smiling at the rice lilies. Mrs. Lynde lives not too far away from Green Gables, and all they have to do is follow the main road. The brook begins at her house, and goes through the wood and ends at Green Gables. They find Mrs. Lynde knitting by her kitchen window, and the radiance on his face disappears to leave in its wake mournful penitence; and the moment he’s up on the porch, he kneels before Rachel, who blinks at him in stupor.

“Mrs. Lynde,” he begins, tears springing to his eyes, wetting his eyelashes. “I am so, so sorry,” he puts his hand over his chest, where he can feel his heart beating. “The amount of sorrow and shame I feel when I think back to how I behaved towards you… no word is good enough to describe it! I hope you can find it your heart to forgive a poor, young orphan omega. I was terribly wicked and I see it now and you were right when you said that I am skinny and ugly and- and well, what I said to you was true too but I shouldn’t have said it. I really, truly, sincerely hope you will forgive me.”

He stares at the wooden porch, waiting for Rachel’s next words. He feels a hand on his shoulder, urging him to look up.

“Well, well now, child, get up,” Rachel says gently. “Of course I forgive you. I do admit I was too hard on you. But I am an outspoken person, so you mustn't mind me. Don’t worry yourself to death.”

He sniffs and stands up, nodding gracefully. Rachel turns to Joyce.

“Have you got time for a cup of tea?” she asks, standing up.

“No, Rachel, I’ve got work to do back home, though I thank you for your kind offer.”

Rachel nods, and Joyce walks down the wooden steps, and he quickly follows after her, not daring to look back but knowing fully well that Rachel’s eyes are trailing on him. He skips out of sight, Joyce walking quietly by his side.

“Well, that went well,” Joyce comments, glancing at him. He smiles and accepts her words as if they were some kind of testimony to his good behaviour. 

  
  


-

  
  


“I have a surprise for you,” greets him as goes up to his room. The fragrance of dew-wet grass and sunshine-kissed flowers cling to his clothes and skin, and his clothes are wrinkled and dirty from him rolling through the meadows. The day has been beautiful, with the petrichor smell rising from the soil, cocooning him like a blanket of feathers. As he steps into his bedroom, he doesn’t expect to see Joyce standing before his bed, hands on her hips.

“Joyce?” he asks, standing in the doorway, peering at her in curiosity. The woman whirls around and smiles, gesturing at the sheets. As he approaches them, he spots three new shirts laid out, newly made.

“What do you think?” she wonders, and he looks at her in quiet astonishment.

“Are these… are these for me?” 

When she nods, he kneels on the floor and caresses the fabrics with his fingertips. A wet smile appears on his face. The shirts look all the same, except for the fabrics that differ from one another. One shirt is dark brown, the other light grey sprinkled with little, darker grey stars and the last one midnight blue. The sleeves aren’t as puffy as he could have liked them to be, but they tighten around the wrists and offer a delightful curve. 

“I love them,” he breathes out, sincere and eager to throw in a trash bin his old clothes to try on the new ones.

“I’m glad,” Joyce nods. “You can hang these in your closet. I think the grey one will be perfectly fitting for school.”

His neck snaps towards her, his mouth dropping open. “School? I can continue going to school?”

Joyce frowns. “Why, of course! I believe you’ll like it alright.”

Joyce’s words overtake his mind until all he can think about is school, school and school! Learning has always provided him with tremendous delight. He loves the feeling that comes with discovering new things; he feels clever, and he’s always figured that if there’s one thing about him that can be improved at all, it’s his brain. He stands up, his entire body thrumming with unfiltered excitement. He takes Joyce’s hands between his own. “Thank you,” he breathes out, full of gratitude.

Joyce shakes his head in fondness and caresses his cheek, before hurrying to the door. “Now, now. You get ready. We’ve been invited over at the Malik’s.”

“Really?” he shudders, hopping all over the place once Joyce hums and disappears downstairs. Instantly, he runs to the bathroom, washing his face thoroughly, rubbing a wet cloth underneath his armpits and over the back of his neck. Then he removes his old shirt, and tries on the midnight blue one, deciding to keep the grey shirt for school. It’s bigger than his old one, and fits him better, and he twirls in front of the mirror to admire his figure in something that feels so soft, and looks so right. He hurries down the stairs and instantly takes Joyce in his arms, resting his head over her shoulder, breathing in her comforting omega scent which reminds him of baked pies and steaming cups of tea and the first ray of light on a summer morning.

“Thank you,” he says in her neck. “I love them.”

She urges him to the table, and he goes to it happily, starting eating, knees bouncing. 

“I can’t wait to go to the Maliks,” he supplies, breaking the silence. “Their house from afar seems to be a splendid castle,” he sighs dreamily. “I bet their garden is the equivalent to the Garden of Eden,” he looks at Joyce. “I’ve read all about it back in the orphanage. Sounds like a really nice place.”

“I bet it does,” she answers, pouring herself a cup of tea and adding a dash of milk, as well as some sugar.

“When are we going?” 

The question is answered fast enough, for several hours later, once the eggs have been collected, and the cows milked, Joyce calls out for him. They set off for the Maliks, and he appreciates how everything is close enough that they can go by foot. The house looms, prominent, in the distance. Joyce has brought along a basket of biscuits.

“Now, you listen to me,” she begins. “Mustapha Malik is a fine man, he’s not the one you should look out for; it’s his wife, Aaliyah, that you must win over. I believe they have a son of the same age as yours.”

He is about to blurt out all about Zayn, and how they’ve become bosom friends; but then he’ll have to admit that he got lost, and he doesn’t think Joyce would appreciate knowing that particular fact. So he remains quiet as they go up Orchard Slope’s door.

He fidgets with the end of his shirt’s sleeves as the door opens, and in the doorway appears a tall, slender woman with stunning long, dark hair and eyes that glow golden under the sunshine. He instantly knows where Zayn got his looks, and being in the presence of a person so beautiful somehow intimidates him. He doesn’t open his mouth until he’s spoken to.

“And I believe you’re Louis,” she smiles kindly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he tells her, giving her his prettiest smile. 

“Please come in,” she opens the door wider and in they go. Instantly, he is greeted by a long, splendid hall with walls dressed up in intricate patterns. He marvels at the flowers on the furniture, and the framed photos — _how rich they must be!_ he tells himself, knowing how fashionable and expensive being photographed is. He isn’t all that surprised; he remembers what Zayn had been wearing the last time he saw him, and the way his silk shirt had looked still sires wonder in his mind. As they enter the living room, he spots a little girl playing with fine dolls on the coffee table. She’s wearing a beautiful dress, with a big bow on the back; and the moment their eyes cross, she sticks her tongue out, mirth dancing within her brown irises. 

“Safaa,” Zayn snaps as he enters the room, eyes instantly finding him — though he remains perfectly composed, probably knowing their past encounter has remained a secret.

“Louis,” Aaliyah says, gesturing to her children. “This is my girl, Safaa, and my boy, Zayn.”

“Hi,” he smiles, blinking as Safaa giggles. He doesn’t mind her all that much and instead focuses on Zayn, who is subtly gesturing for the garden.

“Mother,” he says. “I want to show Louis the gardens.”

She nods and smiles, and guides Joyce to the settees. He keeps his composure until they’re into the garden, then he turns around and lets himself be hugged by his friend.

“How I’ve missed you!” Zayn tells him, taking his hand and dragging him through the alley of angelonias, azaleas, fuschia and yellow calibrachoas and vines of clematises. He laughs as they brush to the sides the stooping leaves of cherry-trees and rogue blossoms of crab apple trees.

“Where are you taking me?” he manages to get out in-between shaky gulps of air.

“You’ll see!” Zayn laughs.

He understands the rush when, seconds later, they arrive at a stunning fountain in the shape of angels holding urns from which water pour straight into a basin. He approaches it tentatively, having never seen something so beautiful before; he hasn’t even read about anything like it before! He dips a finger in the clear water.

“This is beautiful,” he tells Zayn, who hums and moves his hand around in the liquid, which sloshes to the side, falling to their feet in thick drops.

“How does the water come back up?” he wonders, looking up at the urns, and watching as water falls from it over and over again. “It’s like… it’s like magic.”

“I don’t know about the how, but I certainly know that this isn’t magic’s doing,” Zayn smiles at him. He shrugs at his friend, biting his lip.

“But it’s so much more fun to think that wood fairies are sustaining this beautiful piece of marble, isn’t it?”

The black-haired omega lies down among the grass. “I reckon it is. I’m glad you were able to think about wood fairies in the first place.”

He joins Zayn on the ground, spreading his limbs and looking up at the sapphire sky.

“I can— I can picture them,” he begins softly, closing his eyes as the cool breeze ruffles his hair. “They’re tiny, tiny creatures that are made out of wood. When they laugh, it’s as if bells were ringing. And when they fly, their thin, pinkish wings showering a storm of fairy powder over the world. And they’re magic, of course. They can control the earth, and the water, and the sun beams. And flowers bloom as they soar by.”

It’s quiet for a while. They both bask in the afternoon sun, the fine green strands underneath his body making the back of his neck prickle. The damp soil passes its dampness to his clothes, until he can feel it against his skin. He could fall asleep right there if he wanted to; but there’s something else keeping his mind up and running, and it’s the fact that tomorrow morning he won’t be humming next to the brook; but instead going to school.

“Will you be at school after tomorrow?” he asks Zayn, turning sideway and putting his head over the palm of his hand, elbow digging into the grass. “I’m dying to go there. It will be a nice change of scenery.”

He doesn’t expect Zayn to scoff; but that’s what he does, bottom lip jutting out.

“School sucks,” Zayn admits, sighing. “It used to be alright when I was eleven up to fourteen, but then it became a chore. We stopped learning interesting things such as calculus or literature, and instead we began learning about how to take care of a baby and stitch. I wish I could just stay home; but mother is dreadfully set on sending me to that whitewashed prison,” he turns his head to look at the blue-eyed omega. “But I believe that it will be more fun with you there.”

He shakes his head and drops back down, sighing dejectedly. “But I _don’t_ want to go to school if it’s to learn about… about babies and stitching! I know all about it already.”

“Any omega in Avonlea is required to attend those classes at least until they’re nineteen, unless you marry; but even then, it’s seen as proper to keep on coming, just so you know how to make a proper cup of tea for your alpha.”

Zayn huffs as he says those words, rolling his eyes so hard Louis fears the omega might get perpetually stuck. 

“This is ridiculous,” he grumps, trying to imagine what the lessons must be like, and he shivers in disgust as he pictures himself sat at a table, with somebody hovering before him, telling him all about how to take care of an alpha as if he even _cared._ “I don’t even want to go!”

“Oh, Louis!” Zayn suddenly exclaims, sitting up and taking his hands in between his own. “Please, don’t leave me alone tomorrow! At least try to come, and maybe you will like it! Well, if not for the lessons, then come for me, and…”

Zayn smiles wickedly.

“And _what?”_ he giggles, urging the black-haired omega on. 

“And alphas, silly,” Zayn snorts. “They might be dumb and infuriating, but they’re still nice to look at.”

“Zayn!” he admonishes, blushing and swallowing down his smile. He sighs and perks up when Joyce calls out his name, and with a sad little smile he stands up.

“Time to go home,” he waits for Zayn and begins to walk back to the house, the black-haired omega intertwining their arms as they go. He smiles at Zayn and inhales one last time the particular fragrance of the Malik’s garden, glancing over his shoulder at the fountain. He hopes he’ll get to see it again!

“See you tomorrow, alright? By the brook?” Zayn breathes against his neck as they hug goodbye.

“By the brook. Count on me,” he replies.

Then he leaves Orchard Slope with Joyce, his mind working despite himself; and he both dreads and awaits impatiently for tomorrow, apprehension eating at his guts like insects at dew-wet leaves. Tomorrow won’t be a banal day; he can feel it down to the marrow of his bones. _Another day,_ he thinks to himself, _but not another dollar._ And it seems to be the case every single day at Green Gables. If tomorrow, Zayn decides he doesn’t like him, he’s not sure he’ll survive it.

“Do you get on alright with Zayn?” Joyce wonders, looking at him in both apprehension and curiosity. He lights up.

“Yes, we do!” he laughs and plucks a daisy straight out of the soil, putting its end behind his ear. “I think we’re kindred spirits, Joyce! He doesn’t mind my weirdness and or how much I talk, or my imagination.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad you didn’t talk him to death,” Joyce sighs, though there’s fondness in his expression, and a satisfied curl to her lips.

  
  


-

  
  


Magenta blurs into orange, until orange becomes grey; and grey darkens to pitch black. Broth has gone cold at the bottom of a pot; but the fire keeps on crackling, warming up Green Gables. He rubs the bread crumbs off the table, humming _Mountains of Teardrops_ to himself, a lullaby Mrs. Thomas would sing at the first blush of morning. It’s one of the few pleasant memories he has of his life before Green Gables.

The moonlight shines through the window, casting a bluish-purple glow over the furniture. He looks at the boughs of the trees outside as they wave alongside the breeze, and wants to go out and feel its coolness against his face; but for now, he goes on cleaning the kitchen. There isn’t much to do, for Joyce is in the habit of cleaning up after herself whenever she does something, but he likes wiping the furniture or reorganising the cutlery and plates, because he likes taking care of something that is so close to his heart. Green Gables isn’t the asylum, or Mrs. Hammond’s house, or Mrs. Thomas’ cottage; it’s a farmhouse where he feels welcome, and cherished. He’s free to be whoever he wants there. He doesn’t have responsibilities that are too heavy for his shoulders. And Green Gables’ residents have proven themselves to be fine people, who care about his well-being despite having been there for no more than a month.

He smiles as the fleeting hoot of an owl flies into the house, carried by the wind. 

“Louis?” Joyce asks from the living room’s doorway with a gentle smile on her face, her voice adding up to the owl’s screech, creating an interesting cacophony. He stops and straightens up, clutching the rag and tilting his head in silent curiosity. Joyce gestures behind her. “Please, come.”

He frowns, slowly making his way to her. “Have I done something wrong?” he wonders nervously, walking past her, fidgeting even more as he spots David standing near an opened, thick book. “Am I in trouble?”

Joyce looks at him with a raised eyebrow, smiling in amusement. “Did you do something wrong? If not, then there’s no reason for you to fret so much, to be nervous. We didn’t ask for you to give you a call down.”

He gulps and focuses on David as he begins talking. “No,” the alpha speaks up, eyes tender. “You’re not in trouble.”

“We wanted to know whether you’d like to take our last name,” Joyce adds, walking up to the other side of the book. She says it in such a banal fashion that it takes several moments for him to process the words. They fly above his head like a herd of birds looking for solace; but the importance they hold is enough to wake up all of Avonlea. They’re so special, so unexpected; they’re the first rays of sunshine after a loud and unforgiving storm.

He feels as if the ground has opened from underneath him, but not to take him to the bottom of Hell; but to take him on a trip to Wonderland, where water tastes like happiness and the sky twirls to the rhythm of an ode full of wonders. His mouth drops open and he looks to both Joyce and David, eyes filling up with salty water; and a tear slides down his cheek, leaving a wet path in its wake. His fingers loosen around the rag, and it drops to the ground. He doesn’t know what to do, if he is supposed to kneel and spew just how fucking happy he is, or if he is to sit down and ponder on the meaning of his life, and what it will become once he’ll be part of the Tomlinson’s family officially. One glance at Joyce allows him to make a decision, and slowly, but surely, he approaches the opened book, now understanding what it exactly is; the Tomlinson’s Bible.

“You— you want me to be a Tomlinson?” he whispers, not even believing the words coming out of his mouth. He squeezes his eyes shut, tight, and pinches his arm repeatedly. “Please, please, _please,_ don’t let this be a dream; please don’t make me wake up and realize all of this isn’t real.”

He doesn’t think he is acting ostentatiously; it _is_ extraordinary for an orphan to find a family again, and a loving one at that. He is half-sure he will wake up at any moment to find himself in his bed with a stubborn sunbeam in his face, blinding him. He’s dreamt of this very moment for so long, even before he’d made it to Green Gables; in the dead of the night, when it was cold and silent, except for a few shrill cries, he’d drift off to sleep, head full of dreams of smiles and laughs, of warm houses and seasoned food; and above all, of a family to talk to.

“Louis,” Joyce cuts through his inner monologue, chuckling. “You’re not dreaming; and stop pinching yourself like that. You will hurt yourself,” she puts a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it tenderly. “Of course we want you to become a Tomlinson. You’re family now. But of course, it’s all up to you.”

He whirls around and takes her in his arms, sobbing and shaking, muttering thank yous again and again and again. Then he throws his entire being at David, wetting the alpha’s vest, fingers gripping the rough fabric. 

“I’m so honoured,” he gasps, trembling fingers pressing against his eyelids. “I’ve never— I’ve never belonged to anyone. And to think that you’re willing to keep me after all, even though I’m not an alpha and I talk too much and dream too much and— _thank you.”_

“Now, now, Louis,” David pats his back. “Here’s the pen.”

The alpha holds out a fountain pen, which Louis takes most eagerly. He slowly goes to the bible, dipping the tip in the inkwell, and he takes extra care to remove all excess of the black, black liquid, not wanting to ruin the page. He can spot several names written across it already. 

_Enoch Tomlinson._

_Mabel Tomlinson._

_Nathaniel Tomlinson._

_Virginia Tomlinson._

_Wilfred Tomlinson._

_Bertha Tomlinson._

_Jason Tomlinson._

_Joyce Tomlinson._

_David Tomlinson._

His hand is shaking so much that he fears he will tear right through the pages the moment the tip meets the surface. He chuckles to himself, hastily wiping his wet face.

“I’m shaking so much,” he breathes out, beginning to write his name, right underneath David’s. _Louis,_ he spells out, his writing shaky, which he’s quite sad about because he would have liked to write in the most elegant way possible, but the excitement coursing through his veins is uncontainable. He has a hard time believing that, after signing his name on that thick piece of paper, he’ll get to call himself a Tomlinson; he’ll get to say that _yes, I have a family!._ It’s something he never thought would happen to him. 

Then he writes _William,_ the letters less choppy, and at last he adds _Tomlinson._ He can tell Joyce is looking over his shoulder.

“No Austin?” she asks, seemingly surprised. He shakes his head, tear drops flying down, almost wetting the bible though he takes care to step back before the damage is done.

“New beginnings,” he affirms, giving then pen back. “Plus, it would be too much of a mouthful, _Louis William Austin Tomlinson._ I think… I think _Louis William Tomlinson_ sounds perfect.”

He chokes out an unexpected, shaky gasp, letting himself be cuddled by Joyce. Her movements are hesitant, but at last she tightens her hold around him, and it feels nice to know that, from now on, he’ll be able to rely on somebody. 

_Louis William Tomlinson._ He likes the sound of that. He positively _loves_ it.

David shuffles closer to them, beaming. When Louis looks at the alpha, eyes red and puffy, he finds comfort in those kind blue eyes.

“I still think I am dreaming,” he admits, voice low. Joyce rolls her eyes.

“Dreaming fiddlesticks!” she waves her hand in the air. “I’ll make us some tea.”

She walks to the kitchen with a smile perpetually etched on her face. He looks back at the book, fingers unconsciously going to the fresh black ink shaped in his name; and he caresses it tenderly. He sees David grab the back of his hand, and he blinks as the alpha pinches the skin there, not enough to hurt him, but just enough for him to feel it.

“Not dreaming,” David says with a satisfied grin, making the omega’s heart grow in size. “Louis of Green Gables.”

  
  


-

  
  


Waking up as a Tomlinson doesn’t bring fairies to his window and an orchestra of pigs, cows and horses by the cherry-tree; but he imagines that there’s magic crackling in the air as he gets ready. He twirls and nearly breaks his neck as he doesn’t pay attention and tries to put both legs in one single trouser hole; and he gasps as it ripens. He freezes and holds the fabric up to his eyes, grimacing as he spots the huge hole, right where his ass should be. _No! No no no no!._ Not when he is supposed to be at school _tomorrow,_ and meet Zayn _today!_ He can’t possibly go down to the brook with his ass crack exposed to the wind! 

“For fuck’s sake,” he groans, glancing out of the window, spotting David near the orchard. “Joyce!” he shouts, his fingers tightening around his ruined trousers.

She doesn’t hear him at first, so he calls for her again, until he hears the distinct sound of boot heels clicking against the wooden steps.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asks, pushing open the door, the pleasant fragrance of baked bread waltzing in the room with her. He looks at her bashfully as he holds out the trousers, which she takes and smoothes out to see where the problem is. “My!” she exclaims, pulling the fabric taut and gazing at the huge hole in wonder. “What on earth did you do to your trousers?”

He fish-mouths several times, unable to tell her that he ripped it because of his excitement. Instead he goes to the bed, sits down and pouts.

“I can’t meet up with Zayn,” he whines, falling backwards over the feather tick, looking up at the white ceiling in bitterness. “I’m _doomed.”_

Joyce sighs. “You’re not doomed, and you’ll meet Zayn no problem.”

 _“Without_ trousers?” he raises an eyebrow, sitting up. She looks at him pointedly then goes to her bedroom.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Joyce says loud enough for him to hear, her voice muffled as it travels through the walls. “You ruined your trousers! But you’re lucky,” he hears her come back to the room, and she sits down besides him, a piece of light brown fabric over her lap. “I began a new one for you. Give me thirty minutes to finish it.”

“You,” he begins, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “Are Godsent.”

She is surprised by the display of affection, but doesn’t seem to hate it. With a tiny smile she proceeds to stitch the edges of the fabric, which he can tell now that he looks at it better, has the shape of trousers. 

“You run off downstairs to eat,” Joyce demands, already deeply focused on the needle in between her fingers. “Don’t need you passing out after running all over Avonlea.”

He quickly puts on his nightgown, which at least covers his private parts, then makes a dash for downstairs. David has woken up earlier to work the land, so the space is empty. He ignites a fire for the kettle, and cuts two thick pieces of bread. He fetches the butter and cherry preserve, and waits for the bread to be ready.

Golden hues filter through the windows as the morning blush becomes a blazing fire, progressing over the meadows, penetrating the clear water of the brook. He looks at the rows of cherry-trees until he hears a hissing sound coming from the steaming kettle, and bunching up a cloth tissue, he grabs the hot handle of the kettle and puts it down on the table. He has to go on his tip-toes to grab a cup — how he wishes he had Joyce’s heels! — and bends down to look into the cupboards for a saucer. Milk appears besides the glass dishes, and he drops a tea bag in the cup, followed by steaming hot water, then a dash of milk, stirring the liquid until everything comes together into a brown colour. The toasts are slightly dark in some places, but he doesn’t pay it any mind as he generously spreads butter and jam over its surface.

He eats until only bread crumbs and a soaked tea bag remain. He’s afraid he might never leave the house, but then Joyce walks down the stairs, the needle between her lips and the new trousers held up to her clever eyes. 

“I think this… will do,” she proclaims, gesturing for him to go into the kitchen pantry to put it on alongside the midnight blue shirt. He skips to the door, closes it, removes the nightgown and slips on the shirt, then the trousers that, to his greatest delight, fit perfectly. The material they’re made of is soft, and clean, and is the right size for him. His old trousers squeezed his ass and balls. He tucks the shirt in the trousers, then attaches the suspenders, and he feels on top of the world as the new fabrics caress his skin.

He wants to burn his old clothes, burn the last things that truly tied him to the asylum. Flushing, he opens the door and waits for Joyce to acknowledge him. She is quick to spot him, and her eyes are alight with satisfaction and something that he believes to be pride? It makes his lower belly flutter and he nods to show her just how grateful he is. Then he goes to his room to drop the nightgown on the bed and put his shoes on.

Joyce appears and clears her throat to make her presence known.

“I won’t bother you any longer,” she says, walking up to him. As he glances down, he spots a red long strand of fabric in her hands. She follows his gaze and brandishes it. “I want you to have this. May I put it on you?”

The piece of red fabric looks soft underneath the sunlight, soft patterns barely standing out, giving it an air of authenticity. Wordlessly, he faces the mirror and watches as the reflective surface shows Joyce standing behind him and carefully tidying the red strand around his head, making a nice bow at the top. It doesn’t push back his fringe, but holds the end of it in place so that it doesn’t fall into his face. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face, overwhelmed with joy. Delicate, hesitant fingers go to his hair and he caresses the fabric.

“I love it,” he whispers, turning around. “Thank you.”

Joyce rubs his arms. “It suits you. Now off you go.”

Birds chirp from tree branches as he steps out, a basket covered by a white cloth weighing down on his forearm. His boots crunch underneath his soles, dry brown particles of soil flying up into the air as he jogs to the fence. He waves at David and pushes the door made of white-painted wooden beams, jogging down the path and continuing into the grass, cutting through the field. Daisies and Johnny-Jump-ups wave all around him as he runs to the brook, laughing and swinging his basket. In the horizon, the sun has decided to hover over the world as it remains frozen high up in the sky, scattered dews of white making up the clouds and contrasting with the blackbirds soaring by. The brook is a tiny, constantly moving element in the background, though it grows bigger as he gets closer to it.

It takes him a while to spot Zayn’s black hair, but as he stops and focuses on heavening out his breathing, he sees the omega sitting near the woods, where the brook cuts through. Beaming, he steps over several rocks that jut out of the water, mindful not to slip and fall into the rifles, then he waves and calls out the omega’s name.

“Zayn!”

His voice carries to the omega, who turns his head to look at him and wave back with just as much enthusiasm. 

“Louis!” Zayn answers, his hat drawing the attention and threatening to fly to the other end of the world as the wind blows stronger. He slows down and tightens his fingers around the basket’s handle as he draws close enough for his nostrils to pick up Zayn’s subtle omega scent; but then he frowns as another scent merges with their own, making him blink in surprise when blonde hair appears in his sight. “You made it,” Zayn beams, standing up and hugging him. He accepts the embrace with a fond smile, then lets go, but instead of sitting down right away and babbles away about what happened to him yesterday night — he’s a _Tomlinson!_ — and this morning, when he destroyed his trousers with the sheer amount of excitement that had been coursing through him, he remains rooted to the spot, eyes on the omega that’s sprawled onto the grass, on his belly, soaking in the sunshine.

Zayn must notice his stare for he gestures at the stranger. “This is Niall Horan, Louis. Niall, this is Lo—.”

“Louis Tomlinson,” he cuts in, not wanting to be called Austin, and after sending an apologetic smile Zayn’s way, who doesn’t seem upset but rather pleasantly surprised, he accepts the handshake from Niall, who sits up and smiles up at him, bright blue eyes twinkling.

“Nice to meet you, Louis! You’re the orphan that the Tomlinsons adopted?”

He sits down on the sheet that Zayn most likely had spread, and nods, putting his basket in front of him and resting his hands over his thighs. 

“Correct,” he tells Niall, taking in the omega’s face, from his pink lips and rosy cheeks and wide blue eyes to his pastel blonde hair and neat clothes. Zayn is dressed in a silky shirt covered by a light blue flowery vest and tucked in high-waisted trousers, with knee-long boots that glisten, polished to perfection. He doesn’t feel too ashamed now that he is wearing clean, new clothes; but he’s still slightly intimidated by Zayn’s expensive clothes and Niall’s elegant posture. He licks his lips and removes the white cloth, revealing a glass of apple and cherry preserve, freshly baked scones and still warm bread. Niall perks up as he peers inside the basket. 

“These look awesome!” he says, licking his lips. “You’ll manage cooking lessons just fine I reckon. I, on the other hand, suck at them. Nearly set the school’s kitchen on fire, once.”

He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head to the side, looking at the omega in surprise. “Really?”

Zayn nods, jumping into the conversation. “Oh yes. It was hilarious! Mrs. Chapman nearly caught a croup.”

He watches as the omegas snicker, trying to accept the fact that there’s a kitchen in a _school_ and this piece of knowledge has just made the place sound a hundred times worse. He grimaces and grabs a scone, cuts it in half and spreads cherry preserve over the uneven surface. Then he holds it out to Niall who happily takes it, instantly taking a bite out of it. He gives a thumb up, chewing quietly while Zayn grabs from his bag, a light purple book. Zayn gives it to him, and as he grabs it he notices the title is _The Castle of Otranto,_ by Horace Walpole.

“I’ve never read that one,” he admits. “Never even heard of it.”

“It’s a gothic novel,” Zayn informs him, sipping on a glass bottle of water. “And it’s wonderful.”

He looks to the side as Niall snorts. “It’s not. It’s about a crazy Lord and an ancient castle and death and fucked-up romances.”

He blinks down at the book and opens the first page, fingers ghosting over the printed words. “But that sounds lovely,” he mumbles, silently reading the beginning of the sonnet which introduces the novel.

_“The gentle maid, whose hapless tale_

_These melancholy pages speak;_

_Say, gracious lady, shall she fail_

_To draw the tear adown thy cheek?”_

“That sounds so lovely,” he sighs dreamily, laying back until he’s sprawled over the grass, book opened above his face, casting a shade over his skin. “Hapless… what a wonderful word!”

“It’s a synonym for unfortunate,” Zayn supplies, breaking a piece of scone and putting it in his mouth. “I love synonyms, and how I can say the same thing but with different words.”

Niall snorts again — it seems to be his favourite thing to do — and keeps on eating, dipping his toes in the cold water. “What’s the use in reading, when all we do at school is learn how to cook a proper potpourri? And look at the alphas, of course,” he adds, sighing happily. “Especially Harry.”

He doesn’t exactly focus on the conversation, much too focused on filtering through the pages and soaking in the words; but when Zayn lets out a loud, loud laugh, loud enough to bother the nearby birds until they take flight high, high in the sky, does he glance to the side at the red-faced omega.

“You always talk about Harry Styles,” Zayn shakes his head, staring at Niall who only shrugs. “It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s _love,”_ Niall is quick to respond, humming and throwing his head back, a silly little grin on his face. 

“I think love is a beautiful thing,” he can’t help saying, throwing one of his legs over the other, which is bent at the knee; and he swings his foot randomly. “I love romances, and princesses and princes who fall madly in love at first sight.”

Niall hums and rolls over, putting his cheek over the palm of his hand. “Love at first sight certainly is so romantic.”

“But false,” Zayn chirps, taking a grape from Niall’s basket. “And only fools believe in love at first sight.”

Before he can open his mouth to say anything at all, Niall jumps in.

“You’re a cold-hearted bitch, that’s what. When I saw Harry, it was love at first sight.”

Niall giggles and stuffs his mouth with both grapes and scone, which Louis wonders whether it is a good combination at all. The sound of water gushing against moss-eaten rocks accompany them throughout their conversation, and with a sigh he snaps the book closed, laying it over his chest. He feels content enough to wish he could remain there for the rest of his life. The scent of soaked bulrushes and soil offers an odd pinch of salt to their own omega scents that come together in a cloud of comfort and softness, and the sun that shines over them is as relaxing as violins crooning in the background. It feels nice to be outdoors and not on his own. He smiles at the thought.

“Well, too bad it’s one-sided,” Zayn snickers, and Niall’s _oh you rascal!_ should have been a warning and told them of what was about to transpire; but Zayn doesn’t expect for Niall to cup cold water and throw it on the black-haired omega, who shrieks and gets to his feet, trying to get away though he stumbles over the overgrown grass.

“Stop this right this instant!” he shouts, but Niall only laughs and uses his foot to throw even more water, soaking Zayn’s clothes. Louis laughs, tears gathering by the corner of his eyes, but he sputters when he receives cold water in his face, blinking in shock.

“What have _I_ done to deserve this?” he asks, indignant, quickly getting to his feet, _The Castle of Otranto_ falling to his feet. “You’re going to regret this!” 

He doesn’t think about anything as he pushes Niall straight into the brook, the scream that is torn out of Niall’s throat sounding completely inhuman, and Zayn is choking from how much he is laughing. He feels pretty satisfied with what he’s just done until he feels fingers close around his ankles and pulls, making him sway and lose balance. _No! No no no n—_ the cold water collides with his skin like the end of a whip, and he gasps in shock, regretting the action when water fills his mouth and he coughs. He is glad the brook isn’t too deep, because he’s never learnt how to swim, and finding Niall’s shoulders he presses onto them to get out of the water, coughing even more as his head breaks the surface. Niall’s limbs flail around but at last, his blonde head pops up besides Louis, his mouth already opened in a laugh.

“That was awesome!” Niall claps, drops of water flying to him, though at this he doesn’t mind them. He can tell Joyce will have a stroke when seeing him soaked to the bones, especially in his new clothes. He walks to the edge of the brook and hoists himself up, taking Zayn’s hand for help. When Niall reaches out to grab the black-haired omega’s hand as well, Zayn only steps out of the way and sticks his tongue out.

Niall huffs. “Mean omega.”

The blue sky progressively turns into orangish brown as the sun jumps further to the west, nearing the horizon line. He avoids sitting down lest soil would stick to the wet fabrics covering his skin, so in the end they walk through the woods, enjoying the way the sunlight filters through the canopy, lighting up the detritus in random spots, and the way the diverse background noises follow them as they skirt the brook and hover near the apple trees. White blooms whose middle merge into pink hang in the air, surrounding them like snowflakes. He smiles and tilts his head towards the sky, spinning, arms opening on either side of his body like dove wings. His toes dig into the ground, his boots weighing down on one of his arms as he holds them at the tip of his fingers.

The fresh air makes his invisible feathers ruffle. He laughs and glances over his shoulder, seeing Niall humming and moving fallen leaves around with the tip of his toes, the light skin smudged into brown. Zayn, being completely dry, only munches on grapes and basks in the wooden scenery. As he looks at them, he can’t help but notice how delicate they are in their movements; how straight their back is. It must be all the lessons they are forced to undergo, and he dreads going to school tomorrow and having all of his flaws exposed to the world. He doesn’t sit with his back straight. Sometimes, he chews too loudly. He laughs with his mouth wide open, and he doesn’t think twice before opening his lips and telling exactly what it is that he is thinking.

He’s not a ‘proper’ omega, by society standards. He’ll be thrown into the gutters by the gentry before he can even _blink._

He sighs and his shoulders drop in defeat, his arms curling around himself, drying boots hitting his hips. He feels and smells Zayn come up next to him, and an arm is thrown around his body.

“What’s wrong, sunshine?” Zayn asks him, swaying their bodies and stirring them back to the brook. Niall walks to his other side, and he smiles as he is wrapped in a coat of comforting, soft omega scents.

“I know tomorrow will be a catastrophe,” he admits, leaning his temple on Zayn’s shoulder, glad that they’re of the same height.

“Oh, it definitely will,” Niall agrees. “But not because of you, love. But because omega etiquette lessons are a catastrophe on themselves. Absolutely ridiculous. We learn the same things over and over again.”

He feels Zayn’s fingers tightens just slightly. “It’s not _that_ bad,” he offers.

“It is, stop fibbing Zayn,” Niall chuckles, and after several seconds, Zayn also begins to laugh, and Louis follows. Their voices ring through the silent forest like church bells amidst a busy city. “And Louis, if not for Mrs. Chapman, at least tell yourself you’re coming for the alphas. They’re dreamy.”

He thinks back to the alphas at the asylum, and how they’d spend their time bothering the omegas, taking sick pleasure in their cries of frustration and indignation. 

“They’re stupid,” he finds himself saying, scrunching up his nose and stopping to slide on his boots even though they’re not completely dry. He grunts and wiggles his cold toes. “And smelly,” he adds as an afterthought, thinking back to that time they were on laundry duty and he had to scrub thirty shirts reeking of sweat and bitter alpha scents.

“Harry smells _divine,”_ Niall sighs, dreamily, nudging him until they both almost topple over to the ground. He sticks his tongue out as they walk out of the woods, finding their baskets in the grass, left to the ants and noisy birds. He jumps to the discarded book, _The Castle of Otranto,_ and cradles it to his chest. He turns to Zayn.

“I’ll tell you what I think about it, if of course you agree to let me borrow it.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow to emphasize just how ridiculous it is for him to think that the black-haired omega would refuse. He gingerly puts the book in his basket, overwhelmed with excitement at the prospect of having something new to read and discover. Back at the asylum he had stolen a copy of _Jane Eyre,_ but the matron had found it and ripped it to shreds right in front of his eyes. The pain he had felt as an entire world — the only world he could emerge himself into — of wonders and morals got destroyed had been so great that he hadn’t been able to function properly for months after the deed had been done. He loved that book with his entire heart; loved the velvety cover, the yellowed pages, the old ink; loved that, whenever he felt bad, all he had to do was to open the book to emerge himself in a world that didn’t have an asylum, or scornful laughters trailing after him wherever he went. 

“Anyway,” Niall claps his hands and grabs his basket, smiling softly at them. “I have to go. But Louis, it was a pleasure meeting you. See you tomorrow!”

Niall’s blonde hair turns into a random spot against the landscape as he walks down the brook and takes the main road. He watches the omega walk, then he focuses back on Zayn, smiling gently at the omega. He receives a grin in return, and together they walk back to Green Gables, hands brushing, baskets swinging. The flush in the distance reflects upon their faces, and the boughs of the trees smile along with them.

“Don’t worry about tomorrow,” Zayn breaks the silence, knocking their knuckles affectionately. “We complain a lot but it’s not that bad. It only occurs four times a week, and ends rather early, at four in the afternoon. And it’s cool because we can spend some time together.”

He hums and tries to picture himself sitting with other omegas and having conversations and having fun, and the thought is nice, but queer; he isn’t used to getting along with people. He was considered as a lot of things by the people back in the asylum — a freak, an idiot, an ‘imbecile who can never keep his mouth shut’. Needless to say, he wasn’t very appreciated by his peers. He smiles despite his inner turmoil.

“Thank you, Zayn,” he breathes out, an edge of insecurity to his tone, which he attempts to hide behind the false façade of joy. “I’m glad we met.”

He isn’t lying. He hasn’t met a lot of honest people in his lifetime. He likes to think that he’s created enough honest and kind-hearted characters in his mind to inhabit an entire deserted planet, but truth is, sometimes imagination isn’t enough. Sometimes, reality must be kind too, or else it becomes impossible to remain sane. As he looks down at the overgrown grass, and at his battered boots, and at the basket with the soil-dirtied cloth, he can’t help but wonder whether he’s found a life, here at Green Gables, that is worth living. He certainly has won more than he could have hoped; a house, a family, a bed, new clothes. He glances at Zayn. _And maybe a genuine friend._ But tomorrow he’ll be thrown among a herd of omegas, among another society that he has yet to meet. And he is aware he needs to be accepted by all those strangers he will meet tomorrow, or else he’ll know he hasn’t won over the folks of Avonlea. He’ll remain a broken bough hanging for dear life to its tree.

A kiss to his temple breaks him from his self-deprecating thoughts, and he blinks at Zayn in tender surprise. He doesn’t think he’s ever been kissed before. He’s known the harsh pain of the back of a hand, or the end of a wooden stick; but never, never the softness of kind lips. He flushes and lets himself be drawn into a one-sided hug. Zayn rubs his back and arm as they reach the painted wooden beams making up the fence, the cherry-tree and his bedroom’s window facing them.

“Don’t fret too much, love,” Zayn tells him as he takes a step closer to the lock. “You’re a Tomlinson now, therefore you belong to Avonlea. I won’t leave you alone.”

He tentatively nods, cheek rubbing against Zayn’s soft vest. It’s reassuring to know that, once he’ll be thrown among the sharks, he’ll have a hand to squeeze to soothe out the pain of their bites. It’s hard to let go and walk up to the door, and to glance over his shoulder to see Zayn’s retreating back; because in a way, he’s scared that if he blinks, he’ll realize that Zayn Malik is only a fragment of his imagination, an angel sent to his mind to purify the dark thoughts and render reality a drop more bearable.

He pushes open the door and calls out for Joyce, completely forgetting the state in which he is. She appears several seconds later, smiling, but her face turns into one of shock and disapprovement as she takes in his wrinkled shirt, his dry trousers, his damp hair and his boots that have lost half of their stitching.

“Oh for heaven’s sake!” she throws her hands up in the air and gestures for him to give her the shirt and remove the boots. “What on earth did you boys get up to? Go take a bath right this instant.”

She glares at his boots, and somehow he cheers up, now having gotten used to her crisp personality. It has even become something he looks forward to, guessing underneath her stern glances and sarcastic replies that in the end, she does care for him, in her own way. He throws the boots to the side and skips to the stairs, going to the east gable room to remove the bow in his hair, being careful as he lays down the damp piece of fabric. A smile blesses his face as he remembers the way she tenderly tied it around his head. He lays it down over the furniture, letting the sunshine cast its glow over it, then he goes to the bathroom.

The flame of the candle twinkles against the water’s surface, the clear liquid sloshing slightly over the sides as he sits down. He sighs happily and relaxes, letting the back of his head thuds against the bathtub and the water washes away the soil of the day, and alongside it, all his doubts about what tomorrow will bring.

  
  


-

  
  


_“For me!”_ he cries out, holding the book up and a twig in the other hand, pretending to be talking to it. _“Let me die a thousand deaths, rather than stain thy conscience!”_ he drops to his knees, putting his basket down, staring at the twig with one hand over his heart. _“What is it the tyrant would exact of thee? Is the Princess still safe from his power? Protect her, thou venerable old man; and let all the weight of his wrath fall on me.”_

Not a single noise disturbs the surrounding silence as he stops talking, catching his breath. Then he laughs, throwing the twig to the side and pulling the book over his lap, continuing reading _The Castle of Otranto._

The morning looks as joyful as he feels, with the sky deep blue and the clouds non-existent. The sugary taste of the apple he ate at breakfast lingers on his tongue, mixing up with the words he has just thrown out to the world. The dandelions shed fine golden strands of pollen that stand out against the green of the grass and the brown of the tree trunks. Spring petals greet his skin like butterfly wings greet the breeze, and with a bounce he jumps to his feet and grabs his basket. He soaks in the novel’s words as if they were the first dews of water after days of thirst, and he nearly collides with a tree from not looking where he is going, and almost falls on his face as he trips over a tree root that’s jutting out of the ground.

There’s something truly magical about reading while walking into the woods, and it’s because he’s making the most out of that feeling that he doesn’t hear the loud, aggravated growl coming from behind him, or the ruffle of the nearby bushes. Walpole has a way of presenting things and writing out dialogues that has him completely enamoured. And not only that, but the story breathes danger and romance in a way he hasn’t been able to witness before, so it’s only fair that he doesn’t spot the beast creeping up to him until it’s too late.

He screams as teeth close around the cloth covering his basket, pulling hard enough for him to drop the book and look back in alarm. He doesn’t expect to see a big, thin dog glaring at him, trying to get the basket down and nearly breaking his arm in the process. Saliva froths at its mouth, and its eyes are two pools of black. _Oh God._

“Stop it!” he snaps, growling and baring his teeth. He has had to deal with violent dogs before and usually they cower away once he shows them that he isn’t scared; but this one only growls louder, pulling even harder on his basket until he has no choice but to use his hand to push the animal away. It lets go for a few seconds, long enough for him to whirl around and start to run for his life.

He clutches the book as the wind slaps at his face, though pearls of sweat begin to appear on his forehead the longer he runs. He uses the trees to his advantage, navigating around them to slow the weakened dog down, but in the end he also feels as if his knees are about to break in two and his heart collapses from exhaustion. Tears begin to fill his eyes when he needs to stop, too tired to go on. With a lump in his throat he turns around and backs away slowly, raising his hands.

“Listen, darling,” he begins shakily, stumbling over a tree root. “Please, just turn around and go, alright? If you’re hungry I can give you something, wait,” he dives one hand into the basket and pulls a cheese sandwich, throwing it to the ground. The dog smells it, freezes, then begins growling again. 

“If,” he gulps, fingers trembling. “If you want ham, I don’t have any on me. Please, just go!”

He’s about to give up, knowing fully well no one will hear him even if he screams his lungs out, lost in the depth of the woods. He closes his eyes and begins to accept the fact that he might actually die and never see the school or meet Mrs. Chapman or even see Zayn, Joyce, David and Niall again and—

A growl breaks through the fog of fear that has settled over his mind, growing louder alongside a scent that he knows to be distinctively alpha.

 _O my Lord and Savior, in your arms I am safe,_ he begins to chant in his mind, gripping his basket so hard he fears he might cause his fingernails to fall right off his digits. _Almighty God, pardon our sins, well, pardon my sins at least for I do not wish to die when my life has truly just begun, I swear by You I have been good—_

“Are you alright?” a voice asks next to him, and he cowers away, leaning against a tree trunk, squeezing his eyelids even harder. He doesn’t know what to make of the scent that’s lurking all around him, but it’s an interesting, delicious mix of burnt rosewood and vanilla, with an undertone of bitterness that makes his mouth water as if he were about to savour a lemon tart. He gulps and slowly flutters his eyes open, noticing right away that the dog is nowhere in sight (neither is his sandwich, which he assumes the dog took before taking off), and then registering the tall shadow of the alpha standing next to his own. Slowly, he glances to the side, freezing when he meets kind, big green eyes and _oh my god is that curly hair—_

“Omega,” the alpha frowns, waving his hand in front of his face. “Are you alright?” he repeats, efficiently snapping him out of whatever daydream he fell into. He hastily steps away from the trunk and looks around, avoiding the alpha’s eyes. He doesn’t need to anchor the sight of square, defined jaw and rose petal pink lips and soft brown curly hair and wide green eyes and he certainly doesn’t need to ink underneath his eyelids the alpha’s tall figure.

He also forces himself to kick the alpha's deep, soothing voice out of his mind. Especially as it says the word _omega._

He offers a tight smile and hurries off to a direction that he hopes with all his might and main will lead him to the school — for which he is fashionably late. But the alpha is hot on his heels, matching his pace, and he feels those green eyes on him and _stop looking at me for Christ’s sake!_

“Not even a thank you?” the alpha teases, tilting his head, exposing the prominent vein running down the side of his neck, making his scent come out more rich, more potent. “After all I did just save your life.”

He sighs, clutching his book in frustration. “Thank you,” he finally gets out, keeping his eyes on a random spot before him. “Now, please, if you could leave me. I have to get to the school.”

The alpha opens his mouth, ready to talk, but he holds a hand up. “Please, I don’t have time for idle conversations. Thank you again for… for helping me get out of a most hapless situation. Now, goodbye.”

He ignores the alpha’s stunned face as he whirls around and starts to march to where the sun shines the brightest, swinging his basket as he goes (and ignoring the teeth-shaped holes in it). He doesn’t mean to do it, but unconsciously he glances subtly over his shoulder and frowns as the alpha cups his hands around his mouth. _What is he doing?_ he silently wonders, scoffing and rolling his eyes. _Weird alpha._

“If you’re going to the school,” the alpha shouts, and he’s able to hear the amusement in that voice. “Then you’re going in the wrong direction.”

He stops short and frowns, cradling his book to his chest as if it would give him strength. A blush creeps up his chest and his neck to settle on the apples of his cheeks as he whirls around and quickly walks past the alpha.

“I was planning on taking a shortcut,” he huffs, grimacing as the alpha decides to walk with him. Can’t he leave him be? He doesn’t want Zayn or Niall to see him with an alpha! He’ll never hear the end of it. Like a bug that won’t fly away, the alpha’s presence sticks to him until they emerge out of the woods. In the distance, a white-washed, big house stands with pride, its pointed roof rising high, high up into the sky.

“What’s your name?” the alpha wonders, rushing in front of him and deciding that walking _backwards_ will get him an answer. He stops and glares at the man in front of him, narrowing his eyes.

“Please, go _away,”_ he whines, stepping to the right and speeding up alongside rows of spruces.

He’s glad when the alpha remains silent until they’ve reached the school, which up close isn’t as spectacular as he would have liked. Its windows are wide, its eaves low, made of three large rooms that he can tell is well-furnished. The building is set back from the road, and it stands before a brook that runs through a forest of scattered firs that decorate rolling hills. As he creeps closer to the brook, which stops right before the front door, slightly off to the side, he spots several bottles of milk half-emerged within its cold water. He bites his lips and takes his own from his basket, ducking his head as he puts it down by a rock that both hides it and acts as a little support-platform — just so he’s sure his milk won’t sink to the bottom of the brook, never to be seen again.

He stands up and turns around, gasping as he collides with a firm chest. Taking a step back, and looking up, he sees the green-eyed alpha rubbing the back of his neck, and tiny lopsided smile on his face and _are these dimples? What on earth?_ He flushes and musters his most exasperated, annoyed face, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I think I told you in perfectly good English to leave me alone,” he sighs, fingers tightening around the handle of his basket. He hates how the alpha’s grin grows bigger (and with it the two ridiculous craters in his cheeks) and how he also crosses his arms, his biceps bulging ostentatiously. _Show off,_ he wants to scoff.

“And I think I asked for your name, in perfectly good English,” the alpha retorts, raising an eyebrow and ducking his head closer to Louis’. The omega jerks his head to the side and rounds the tall body, feeling himself blush even harder.

“If I tell you my name, will you leave me alone? 

The alpha pretends to ponder for several seconds, green eyes sparkling with mirth. As quick as light, the alpha grabs his hand and bends down to kiss the back of it. He has to snatch it away with wide eyes, not expecting the sudden display of affection. This is why he doesn’t like alphas! They’re cocky and believe themselves permitted to do everything their heart desires. He can just whirl around and slip into the omega’s classroom without muttering a single word, and he’ll forget all about that odd encounter. But somehow, his lips open, and his name spills from it, a sure testimony to his weakness. He’s never been kissed on the hand before — he’s allowed to be flustered.

“It’s Louis.”

Then he spins around and walks to the door, but he stops and looks back nervously.

“Not Lewis, please, but Lou- _ee._ And uh, yes, bye!”

Then he pushes the door open with his heart beating outrageously fast. Back at the asylum the alphas were assholes, so it was easy to be an asshole as well; but whoever that alpha was has acted nice and he doesn’t like it one bit… well he does like it, but he doesn’t like the fact that he likes it!

 _Get a grip, Louis,_ he shakes his head to himself, exasperated, adjusting his bow and his fringe before stepping through the doorway. He freezes as he is met with rows of tables and omegas sat with their back as straight as rulers, and it truly goes down the gutters when he meets Mrs. Chapman disapproving eyes.

“Well, if it isn’t the orphan omega the Tomlinsons adopted,” she blinks, staring him down. “Late on your first day at school,” she scoffs while several omegas chuckle at his misfortune. “Sit down.”

He’s half-tempted to snap back but he keeps his mouth shut and hurries to the empty seat that Zayn has kept warm for him. The black-haired omega glances at him with a grin, subtly glancing down at his book. A stack of them has been put on the corner of his desk, and once he sees that the book they’re currently reading is light blue, he chooses the right one and quietly puts it down before him. He reads the title; _The Omega’s Guide to Perfect Manners_ by Jane Montgomery. _What the fuck?_ He glances down at the page number that Zayn is currently on and decides they’re studying the chapter titled _A Guide and Manual For Omegas, as regards their Conduct in the Street._ His jaw nearly drops to the ground but he composes himself and begins to read.

If the title seemed ridiculous, it’s nothing compared to the actual content of the chapter. He gets so bored by the fourth paragraph that he changes a glance at Mrs. Chapman, finding her reading. He looks behind him and spots Niall, and all the other omegas he’s never seen before. It gives him such a thrill to be surrounded by the people he might potentially become friends with, and with his mind filled to the brim with thoughts of new friends he goes back to reading the rest of the chapter.

The silence around him is slightly upsetting, especially when Mrs. Chapman begins talking about what they’ve read — basically repeating what is already printed black on white in the book — and goes as far as _demonstrating_ how they’re supposed to walk, to stand, to greet people, to laugh (mouth barely open, hand in front of said mouth, fingers pressed to one another), and it’s such a load of bullshit that at one point he needs to bite on his lip to keep his laugh in.

“Stop it,” Zayn breathes, fighting to keep his smile at bay, and managing it perfectly well after years of being trained to keeping a stoic face. He, on the other hand, hasn’t had that chance so when Mrs. Chapman makes a curtsy he starts to laugh until tears gather in the corner of his eyes. He buries his face into his folded arms, body shaking, overtaken by the strength of mirth. _“Oh God,”_ Zayn groans subtly, sending him in another fit of giggles.

“Mr. Tomlinson,” Mrs. Chapman snaps, walking up to his desk, her eyes alight with anger. “Something’s funny?”

He straightens up and wipes away the tears, flushing crimson as all the omegas look at him.

“No, Mrs. Chapman,” he answers, keeping his face void of any expression. It doesn’t soothe her anger one bit, but she thankfully walks away and resumes her lesson. He sighs in relief and glances at Zayn, finding the omega grinning, relieved.

Throughout the morning they progress from theory to practice, meaning that they have to practice walking with their back straight, their chin tucked in; or greeting strangers properly, which differs from how they’re supposed to greet their relatives. It’s tiring and boring and leaves him with a weight on his guts, the one he knows all too well, the one that begs him to run out of the classroom and go do something that inspires him. Because what’s the point of wasting his time, when he could be doing a hundred other things better suited to his passions?

When noon strikes, they’re asked to exit the classroom with a book balanced on to their heads. He widens his eyes in disbelief, and Zayn looks at him apologetically as he manages to stand up from his desk, grab his basket and walk out of the classroom without once making the book fall.

Mrs. Chapman comes up to him, a thick red book between her fingers.

“Back straight,” she begins, gesturing for him to stand up and do as told. “Chin straight, eyes forward. Good.”

She balances the book on top of his head, the thing threatening to fall the moment he steps forward, though he breathes through his nose and prays the Lord he makes it to the door without too many catastrophes. He manages ten careful steps before the book goes crumbling to the ground, and closing his eyes and he picks it up and puts it back on top of his head. Taking his basket turns out to be torture, because he has to bend his knees to grab it, but by miracle the book doesn’t fall. He opens the door and the moment it clicks shut behind him, he rolls his eyes and takes the book off his head.

“I fucking hate this,” is the first thing he tells Zayn as he joins the black-haired omega to the brook, where he’s drinking a bit of milk. “I hate it,” he repeats, dropping to his knees, uncaring of the soil dirtying his trousers, and grabbing his own jug of milk. What even is the point of such lessons? In what world do omegas have to behave like this? He’s never been told any of the things he’s seen today, besides the part about sitting up with his spine straight. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Zayn glances at him, licking off the mustache of milk then dabbing the area dry with his handkerchief. “You were late this morning,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come after all.”

He frowns and glances over Zayn’s shoulder, at a circle of omegas in which Niall is, giggling. He shakes his head and fishes his apple out of his basket, bitterly biting in it and knowing it’s going to be the only thing he’ll eat all day — he gave his sandwich to that dog. Zayn gets his own food out and begins munching on it, looking like those omegas posing on the front cover of a fashion magazine. 

“I got side-tracked by a dog, which wouldn’t leave me alone,” he reveals, chewing slowly. Noon brings the lack of spring breezes, and the spruce trees remain still, frozen in time as he gazes at them. Close to the horizon line spots of darkness reveal the presence of cattle grazing the grass. How he yearns to be up there, looking over the valley, instead of stuck in that forsaken classroom! Mrs. Chapman and her etiquette books provide so little scope for the imagination. He decides to steer clear from the topic, noticing Zayn’s worried expression. He does not fancy having to tell the omega about his adventure with that alpha; and he doesn’t want to lie, either. So he leans back, a hand flat on the ground, and jerks his head towards the crowd of omegas. “What are they doing?”

Zayn snorts. “They’re gushing over the alphas. There’s a handful of them. This school is made up of three school levels; six to twelve to learn basic school stuff such as algebra or literature. Then omegas and alphas are split in the other two classrooms, where the alphas will specialize in their studies regarding what they want to become later on, and omegas are taught how to be proper omegas.”

“But I don’t want to be taught how to be a proper omega, Zayn,” he mumbles, pulling out of the soil three long strands of grass and starting to braid them, his apple laying forgotten on top of his basket. “It’s bullshit. Why aren’t alphas taught how to be proper alphas? Some of them could use those lessons. There’s so much to learn and see, and I don’t understand why we can’t learn about them, or why we aren’t allowed to further our studies. What if I want to be a doctor?”

Zayn’s lips twitch into a sad little grin, his greasy lips shining underneath the sun’s glow. “I’m afraid we live in a ridig world, and we have to deal with it. Mother is very progressive, she wants me to go abroad to study. But father isn’t of the same opinion; and the alpha always has the last say.”

The weight of the truth behind Zayn’s words hang around them, foster the kind of tension that threatens to choke them. He glances down dejectedly and thinks back to the asylum. If someone doesn’t get adopted, either they’re thrown out to fend for themselves, or kept to do the chores. He struggles picturing himself in the first scenario; where would he have gone, had he decided to be left outside in the vast, cruel world. It’s unlikely he would have become a doctor, but he could have done something with his life, he reckons. Perhaps he’d have sought out his late parent’s house, and settled in there. He’d have a little garden and several lambs — he’s always wanted lambs, they’re so adorable. But maybe he’d have ended up in much, much worse places, and he shudders as he thinks about them.

Green Gables is a blessing. However, that school definitely is not. He doesn’t want to be taught how to behave properly to get himself a rich alpha. He doesn’t want to be a puppet in the hands of a being that has been deemed superior by society; in fact, he’d rather be back at the asylum scrubbing the old floors than be under the thumb of an alpha, because at least he’d have chosen to scrub that floor. Free-will is fundamental. It’s something he’s always stood by, even when he is at his lowest. It’s a concept he’s discover while reading Jane Eyre;

_“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will.”_

Those words caress the most tender parts of his soul; stroke it until he’s convinced of their veracity. 

“Well,” he proclaims at last, straightening up with a determined frown. “I shall never have an alpha.”

Before Zayn can open his mouth to, most likely, reprimand him for saying something so ridiculous, there’s a collective gasp echoing all around them like the consistent buzz of a flying bug; and the soil crunches underneath heavy boots. He frowns as he takes in Zayn’s wide eyes, and he understands exactly why when he spots the annoying alpha of earlier walking towards them. _Hell no,_ he mentally mutters, and he hastily grabs his apple and turns his back to the newcomer, burning a hole through the uneven lines limiting the main road. _Walk past me,_ he begs, _don’t talk to me! You’ll be my downfall!_ His pleas fall on deaf ears — not surprising since he’s talking to himself, but hello God? — as the sun is blocked from shining over himself as he basks in sudden shadow. He scrunches up his nose and takes a big bite from his apple, his cheeks puffing out, the crunchy sound of his teeth destroying the piece of fruit ricocheting all around them. 

In the distance, the sound of alphas laughing and going on with their businesses offer a stark contrast to the deadly silence that’s befallen the omegas. _Cut the crap!_ he wants to shout. If he didn’t know better, he’d think someone’s dying, or at least something spectacular is about to happen — as it is, an alpha coming to talk to an omega isn’t the end of the world, the dramatic of the situation almost makes him gag. They’d pass out if they were to come to the asylum, where the line between alphas and omegas is blurred. He takes a deep breath and glances up, finding two green eyes already on him.

“You’re interrupting my tan,” he grits out, taking another bite of the apple, eyes narrowing on the alpha’s silly little grin. He wants to slap it right off — and had he been at the asylum, he could have. But as it is, he can’t do much besides channelling all of his frustration in his blue irises.

The alpha crouches, his strong thighs nearly touching Louis and he leans to the side so such a thing won’t happen. The curly-haired man’s scent mercilessly waltzes to his nostrils, and he hates to admit that it’s a mouth-watering scent, and those alphas he used to see everyday have nothing on the one currently talking to him. “My apologies,” the alpha’s grin becomes a blinding smile. “I won’t be long, though, _Louis._ I just wanted to give you that. Here.”

He frowns as the alpha — he really should ask him his name, but he can’t bring himself to do it — holds forth a sandwich, carefully wrapped in a clean cloth.

“It’s tomato and cheese,” the alpha supplies, shaking it slightly when Louis doesn’t take it right away. “You can’t go through the day with only an apple.”

Louis feels confused; did this big, unknown alpha come to him to give him food? He’s embarrassed as he feels a dozen pairs of omega eyes on him, and also angry because he does not want to be pitied by this alpha! He’s gone days without eating when he was at the asylum; he can function just fine until twilight with only an apple in his system. He huffs and looks away from the alpha, willing his blush to go away.

“I don’t want it, nor do I need it,” he says, bored, munching on his apple, its juice sliding down his finger. He quickly licks the sweet drop before it can travel further down, and when he hears a quiet gulp, he finds the alpha’s eyes on his lips, and _oh._

“You have to eat,” the alpha retorts, blinking quickly and putting some space between them as he leans back. 

“I am eating,” he waves his apple in the air, raising an eyebrow to make the alpha understand just how stupid he thinks he is. _Please, just walk away!_

“You’re not eating enough,” the alpha frowns, putting the sandwich on top of the omega’s basket. “Take it. Even if you don’t eat it,” his eyes suddenly sparkle with mirth. “At least you can give it to any stray beast trying to make you their supper, if I happen to not be around to slay it for you.”

He fishmouths as the alpha stands up, feeling himself indignantly flush. He wants to throw his half-eaten apple at the alpha’s retreating back, but instead he takes the sandwich, thrusts it in his basket, and meets Zayn’s dumbfounded eyes.

“Side-tracked by a dog, hm?” the black-haired omega snorts. “I think Niall’s in the back freaking out.”

His heart drops to his guts as he sees Niall’s wide eyes on him, and the sinking feeling worsens as he begins to have an idea of who the alpha might actually be.

“Please,” he breathes, closing his eyes and rubbing his temple. “Please don’t tell me this was Harry Stark.”

 _“Styles,”_ Zayn corrects him with a tiny chuckle. “The one and only.”

No wonder Niall’s two seconds away from murdering him.

  
  


-

  
  


“It’s okay, Louis,” Niall pats his shoulder and rolls his eyes. “You’re white as a sheet. Calm down, love.”

They’re sitting by the brook, novels scattered all around them, baskets abandoned on the wet bank. Zayn has brought a small jug of wine, and they’ve been sipping at it, but Louis especially has been going at it with a ferocity he didn’t know he possessed. He’s been feeling bad after figuring out that the alpha that’s been bothering him is Harry Styles, his friend’s crush. What kind of friend is he for talking to his friend’s alpha? An awful one. So he’s been drowning his sorrow in wine, despite Niall’s reassurance that he isn’t offended the slightest.

“Plus,” Zayn adds with a mocking grin. “If it hadn’t been for Harry, our dear Louis’ corpse would have been found dead.”

He huffs. “It’s not funny.” His hand creeps towards the bit of wine left but Zayn unhelpfully picks the jug up and puts it back in his basket. “I wasn’t going to _die._ I could have managed just _fine_ on my own.”

He thinks back to his pathetic attempt at feeding the dog his cheese sandwich, or how he had closed his eyes, ready to receive the fatal bite. Well, these hapless events are between him, Harry, and God. He’ll just pretend he had been brave and Harry isn’t the reason he’s still alive to tell the tale. He sighs and caresses the new book Zayn has given him, _The Monk_ by Matthew Gregory Lewis. _Poor soul,_ he thinks sadly, slightly drunk. _I’m sorry everyone’s calling you Lewis. I’m sure you’d have preferred Lou-ee._

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, Louis,” Zayn huffs, walking closer to him and reaching up to straighten the bow in Louis’ head. “It’s over, it’s nothing, we're moving on.”

Niall hums. “Though,” he begins with an amused smile. “If you still have that sandwich, I wouldn’t mind eating it.”

Of course he doesn’t have it anymore; the moment he was able to, he had thrown it to the chickens. He tells Niall so, remembering the way the animals had torn it to shreds, and the odd satisfaction he had felt. Every piece ripped away by the chicken’s beaks was a piece of memory of the alpha that he’d drag out of his mind to throw in the trash bin. He doesn’t quite say that part to his friends lest they’d think he’s lost his marbles, but it calms him down to think of himself pushing Harry to the back of his mind. He doesn’t care for the alpha. All he wants is to find a way to learn what the alphas are learning, and grow his social circle.

He hasn’t had much luck with both goals; first because he hasn’t been able to steal any book from the alpha’s tiny library, and second because he hasn’t talked to any other omega besides Zayn and Niall. He does have lessons to learn though, since Mrs. Chapman is rather fond of the concept of homework.

Which is how he finds himself, on a Saturday morning, walking over tree roots and stacks of fallen tree leaves with three books balanced on top of his head.

The back of his neck hurts, and more than once he kicks a tree trunk in rage, only to whine when he hurts his toes. But he’s determined to impress Mrs. Chapman, even though he doesn’t much care for her opinion or her lessons, so he keeps trying, again and again, breathing gently through his nose and keeping his back as straight as a ramrod. He manages thirty steps without making a single book fall, and he’s about to declare victory as he nears his goal, which is forty steps, when a crack coming from behind him startles him and he whirls around, eyes wide.

The books go crumbling to the ground, making dust fly up into the air, and through the thin particles, he sees Harry leaning against a trunk, his arms crossed over his chest, his green eyes on him.

“Are you _mad?”_ he explodes, throwing his hands up, groaning. “I was so, _so_ close to reaching my goal, and your stupid, stalking ass had to creep up on me, hm?”

Harry is trying to keep his laughter in, walking closer to him, eyes soft. He doesn’t like the way those eyes make him feel, an odd, dangerous mix of nervous and flustered, so he bends down to pick up the books, raising an eyebrow when Harry growls in protest.

“I wanted to pick them up for you,” the alpha pouts, and Louis glares at him, getting into position and lowering the pile of yellowed pages over the top of his head.

“I’m a functional human being, thank you very much,” he grits out as he begins to walk and mentally count the amount of steps he takes. _One, two, three, for heaven’s sake Harry fuck off!, four, five._ He doesn’t let himself be distracted as the alpha walks along with him, despite the slow pace, green eyes focused on him in a way that would, in any other cases, compelled him to throw a book in the alpha’s face.

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t do it and certainly doesn’t want to think about the reason, whatever it might be.

“Is this what you do at school?” Harry wonders, frowning. 

Louis huffs. “As if you didn’t know already.”

It’s silent for a while as he goes on practicing his walk, until his back throbs so much that he decides to take a break. He gently drops the books down by his basket, and is about to reach for his bottle of water when it appears before his face, top uncapped, long fingers wrapped around the neck. He glares at Harry as he takes it from the alpha, gulping down a third of the bottle, wiping his lips and sighing happily as his thirst is quenched. For a moment, he enjoys the scenery surrounding him. Spring has reached its peak, with flowers fully bloomed and breathing life into the air. The trees are vibrant green and reflect the rainbow as the sunlight filters through the spaces in the canopy, and the sight is all the more beautiful as birds of feathers ranging from bright red to the darkest shade of brown chirp from tree boughs, soaring through the woods to places unknown.

The brook shines golden and pink with flakes of diamonds, water gushing down to Green Gables, headbutting the rocks that jut out of its uneven surface. It’s a lovely sight, one he is glad to wake up to everyday, but his vision of wonders is interrupted as his eyes fall upon the alpha standing not far away from him.

He’s never paid attention to alphas before because the ones he would associate with were brats who spent their time tormenting the omegas, and mostly because none of them has ever caught his attention.

It would be a lie if he said he didn’t find Harry Styles attractive. The sharp cut of his jaw contrasts beautifully with the soft curve of his lips. His vibrant, clever rainforest green eyes are given a layer of delicateness whenever he smiles and his slightly bigger front teeth appear. His hair is perpetually in a boyish, messy haircut, as if he spent a great deal passing his fingers through the fine brown strands. He’s tall, but not so tall so as to make him menacing, and the muscles underneath his clothes reveals an alpha that is more than able to handle the demands of toiling over the farmlands that rallied all through Avonlea; and the cuts over his hands, as well as the rough-looking skin of his palms also make Louis deduce that the alpha helps around a farm every once in a while. And it doesn’t help that the way the alpha dresses accentuate his best assets; his white striped shirt is messily rolled up over his forearm, stuck in place by a vest that’s a shade lighter than his trousers. Mud-dirty boots cover his feet, and Louis tries not to look at his own boots; not because he is ashamed of the state they’re in, but because _holy shit_ Harry’s feet are big.

Harry embodies a healthy, hard-working, charming alpha, so it isn’t absurd for him to be sought out by almost every single young omegas in Avonlea.

He just doesn’t want to be one of them, is all. He’s got too much to think about, and too many ambitions to even entertain the idea. Niall can have Harry; he doesn’t give a damn. He ignores the way Harry’s eyes follow his every move as he gathers his things and begins to walk back to Green Gables. Obviously, Harry follows him, and he doesn’t even bother asking the alpha to go away, though he sighs very loudly, very ostentatiously, to get his sentiments across. It earns him a chuckle in return.

“You’re not from around here,” Harry begins, hands folded behind his back. He looks like a little boy as he pushes leaves around with the toe of his boots. The thought makes him smile, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. Instead he decides to go for a dry answer.

“Isn’t it _obvious?”_ he clicks his tongue as they walk past the last few trees on the outskirts of the woods, emerging next to the brook with Green Gables shining in all its glory further down the line. He hopes Harry doesn’t expect to walk him to the house’s door; if Joyce sees them, he’ll never, _never_ hear the end of it and he’d rather _die._

He’s hyper-aware of the soft brush of skin against the back of his hand, and when he glances down he notices just how close they are. He can see the details making up Harry’s face, from the dusts of hair over the alpha’s jaw to the fading, tiny scar on his temple. _What on earth Louis?_ He squints at his boots and decides to speed up, eager to get to his familiar room and away from the confusing alpha. He doesn’t understand why Harry is so set on being with him, and part of him is afraid that it’s to taunt him, to mock him; to mess up the new, orphan omega that has just begun blossoming here at Green Gables.

He stops and turns to face Harry, a tight smile on his face. “Thank you for accompanying me, but I’ll proceed on my own from there, alright? Thank you and bye!”

Harry’s _‘wait’_ is cut off as he starts to walk again, clutching the books against his chest. He doesn’t dare glance over his shoulder lest he’d spot the alpha following him, but when Harry’s scent shrinks to become only a ghost of what its intensity really is like as he gets closer to Green Gables, he understands he’s been left on his own. He’s glad for that and he hastily unlocks the fence, pushing it open, sliding his body through the gap. David is in the stable, his tall figure moving as he works the hay, and he guesses Joyce is inside. The chickens cluck away in the coop, while the cattle munch on the spring-kissed grass in the distance. He skips to the door and throws it open.

“I’m home, Joyce!” he calls out, not waiting for an answer as he runs up the steps to the east gable room.

Soft light filters through his closed window, and he doesn’t mean to do it, but as he drops his basket next to the bed and goes to the clear glass, his heart does an odd summersault as, through the holes the cherry-tree’s boughs allow, he spots Harry slowly turning around and disappearing through the moving chaotic mass of tree trunks making up the woods. _Has he been waiting for me to reach Green Gables before going?_ He flushes at his thoughts and angrily closes the thin curtains, its yellowish fabric casting a sunset glow all around the room. Then, he lets his body drop onto the bed, and muffles his screams of frustration in his pillow.

  
  


-

  
  


A host of daisies and Welsh poppies littered the meadows, shiny under the sunlight after being dozed in cold rain water. He remembers the pitter-patter sound on the roof that has lullabied him to sleep, and he remembers counting the water drops sliding down his window to find solace. When he woke up and found fresh batches of bloomed flowers, he’d hurried outside and onto the roof of the chicken coop, just to be able to feel the breeze of the dawn and enjoy the wonderful sight of the leas lighting up in warm hues. He kicks his legs gently, humming to _Nightingale’s Heartbreak,_ a tune he heard from one of the older omegas.

“Louis?” Joyce calls out, tying her apron around her waist and walking up to him. She looks up and pursues her lips. “What on earth are you doing up there? Come down right this instant! Breakfast won’t prepare itself!”

He chuckles and climbs down, being careful not to fall — Joyce would have a stroke — then he jogs to the house, grabbing the basket full of eggs he collected in the process. Once in the kitchen, he stows them away and keeps three for breakfast, which he throws in boiling hot water. While Joyce takes care of the laundry, he toasts the bread and puts the kettle on, then cuts thin strips of ham that he puts into a plate next to goat cheese.

“Can you call David, please? He’ll be eating earlier since he has to make a trip to Charlottetown,” Joyce informs him, and with a nod he goes out of the house and to the apple trees, finding David checking them out, a toothpick between his lips. He’s dressed in his usual attires, a simple shirt and a simple vest and simple trousers and thick, worn-out boots. With a smile he bends down to gather some leaves and, coming up next to the alpha, he throws them at him. David startles and uses his hands to brush them away, beginning to laugh as he sees the omega.

“You alright?” David asks, pinching his cheek fondly, making him jerk his head away. 

He giggles. “Breakfast’s practically ready, so.”

David hums and together they begin to make their way to the house. Curious, he peers up at the alpha, tilting his head.

“Why are you going to Charlottetown?” he asks, munching on his bottom lip. “Can I come with you?”

David flounders for a moment, blinking quickly and burying his large hand into his pockets. “Uh,” he frowns, glancing around. “I have some things to do.” 

The alpha pats him on the back and speeds up towards the house, leaving him blinking in confusion. He shrugs and is about to follow suit when he spots movement to his right, in the barn. He freezes as he realizes there’s somebody up there, when there _shouldn’t,_ and with his heart in his throat he silently creeps to the big wooden door. There, he grabs a broom and takes a deep breath. _You can investigate this, Louis._ He can fight alright. He’s strong. 

Holding the broom with one hand and using the other to climb the ladder, and ignoring the way the polished wood tremble slightly underneath his body, he makes it to the first floor, holding in a sneeze as the dust from the hay flies to his face.

He can’t tell who it is, but their steps are heavy and they’re whistling without a care in the world. _I’ll shut you up, whoever you are,_ he thinks bitterly as he hoists his body up and slowly rounds the corner. The strong scent of alpha tickles his nostrils, and brandishing the broom, he strikes.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks as he lays another blow on the alpha’s back, who has let go of a hay hook, putting his arms over his head.

 _“Mais que faites-vous?"_ the alpha manages to get out, though Louis doesn’t understand. He frowns as the thief — or whoever he is — circles the broom and pulls, resulting in the weapon to fall to the ground. “Vous êtes taré!”. 

“Who are you?” he repeats, narrowing his eyes as he takes in the big, warm, puppy-like eyes and the curls. 

“‘M Liam Payne,” the alpha offers, brushing his hands over his jacket and rubbing his throbbing arm where Louis hit him with a grimace. “Who are _you?”_

He scoffs. “I’m Louis Tomlinson, and I live here, and you don’t so I don’t know what _you_ are doing here.”

“Je travaille,” Liam shakes his head, exasperated, then picks up the hay hook, shakes it to emphasize his statement, then begins stabbing it in the stack of straws. “Working.”

His mouth drops open as he remembers David saying he’ll hire an alpha to help him around, but he didn’t expect David to really go through it. He glares at said hired alpha and whirls around, rushing down the ladder, marching to the house with a stormy little cloud hanging over his head. How could David do this? He’s not an useless omega; he can do anything around the farm. He knows he is now a Tomlinson; but what if they decide to send him back? He clenches his fingers as he storms through the door, spotting the alpha sipping on his tea. He doesn’t want to bother David while he’s eating, but the revelation that there’s a Liam Payne currently working in the barn urges him to pull his chair out and drop his body on it.

“You hired an alpha?” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, his fingers gripping the edge of the table. “Why?”

David glances at Joyce, who is kneading a bread dough and looking between them in quiet astonishment.

“He’s uh,” David licks his lips clean of egg yolk. “He’s the help, you know, ‘round the farm.”

He looks up at the ceiling in disbelief, barely keeping in his scoff. “He’s literally a waste of money. I told you I can be as efficient as an alpha. You don’t need to keep him.”

David smiles and reaches over to take his hand, patting it affectionately.

“That boy needs to help his family out,” he reveals, the rough skin of the alpha’s palm contrasting with his own unblemished one. “So I figured, might as well keep him. At least you can focus on school and your friends, and getting acquainted with Avonlea.”

He glances down at the table, hating how vulnerable his voice comes out. “So you still want me?”

There’s silence for several seconds, the lack of action and noise speaking louder than any other words. He feels nervous as David tightens his hold on him, his worried eyes trying to catch the omega’s. 

It’s Joyce who breaks the silence. “Louis, of course we still want you. David didn’t hire Liam to get rid of you. You’re a Tomlinson now. You’re family.”

He manages a tiny smile despite the doubt tainting his mind.

“And,” David begins, a grin on his face as he puts a chunk of butter over his toast. “You two can get to know each other.”

He scrunches up his nose in disgust as Joyce gasps. “David Tomlinson!” she reprimands, waving a dough-sticky finger at her brother. “You appall me!” 

He raises his hands in the air as he briskly stands up, wanting to get out of the room as fast as possible. He is meant to work some more over the books, even though they’re boring. He flies to his room and throws himself on the bed, opening a random book and starting to read it. The words, at first, make sense, though the meanings behind them weight over his shoulders and mind like bags of stones. But soon, as he progresses further down the chapter, the letters begin to eat each other until he can’t read them anymore, and his eyes droop, and the brightness of the day shrinks until it turns into gloom.

  
  


-

  
  


If there’s something he hates with his entire being, it’s patchwork. Thursday brings a flurry of dull-coloured fabrics and boxes of needles, and the moment Mrs. Chapman makes them sit down to practice their needlework, and while he’s good at mending torn clothes, or knitting simple things such as wool vests, he absolutely _loathes_ patchwork. There’s just no scope for imagination in punching one little seam after another in a blank cloth, and not only that but he also has a nasty habit of poking his fingers with the tip of the needle. He huffs as he attempts to make the shape of rose leaves.

Unsurprisingly, both Zayn and Niall, and basically every single omega in the room besides him, are great at the activity. He doesn’t give up and keeps on trying to get the shape right, and he pretends to be enjoying himself until, finally, noon strikes and he can jump out of the classroom (well, not jump literally, because they have to always walk in the room with a book over their head, but he’s mastered the skill and can do pretty much anything with three books piled up over his head). He hasn’t encountered any starved stray dog while coming to school with Zayn for a week now, so he actually has something to eat each time. Niall has taken to sitting down with them, in a way that allows him to gape at the alphas.

“He’s so dreamy,” the blonde omega sighs as Harry throws his head back and laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that’s too loud, too goofy, too ostentatious; and if he finds it cute, then no one is the wiser. Instead of dwelling on his treacherous inner feelings, he bites into his sandwich — quite aggressively — and lets Niall ramble about the alpha.

They haven’t talked since that last time in the woods, and he prays it remains that way. He doesn’t need to be around such a bold alpha, because he knows he finds Harry attractive, both physically and seemingly personality-speaking, and he can’t allow it. Niall has already his sight on the alpha and he isn’t about to come in the way. 

He decides to focus on the pile of slates in the hands of an omega, who jogs to them with a big, almost doll-like smile. “Care to join us in a game?”

He’s about to open his mouth and wonder about the nature of the game, but Niall nods and jumps to his feet, hurrying over to the group of omegas sat close to the alphas. He’s pretty sure Niall’s excitement isn’t due to the game, but rather fostered by the fact that he’s close enough to Harry to be able to smell him fully. Zayn rolls his eyes and makes a gesture, silently asking him if he wants to play, too. He licks his lips and nods. If he wants to socialize with the other omegas, he might as well try to engage with them. He grabs his basket and walks to the circle, nervously sitting down and accepting the slate that’s passed over to him by a beautiful omega with auburn hair.

He slightly regrets having sat with his back to the alphas, because he can tell Harry’s eyes are on him and he can’t glare back. With a sigh he takes a piece of chalk and waits for the first question. The game is boring, but he is willing to take part in it; it consists in correctly answering the question. The first few questions are about how to stand, how to act, things like that which they’ve seen in the first few chapters of the blue book. Then it progresses to what to say in what situation, and he’s glad that he gets most of it right. He also takes advantage of the moment to learn about the omegas. Not all of them are playing, but those who are include Jolene, who has gorgeous curly blonde hair, Madeleine, who hasn’t stopped glaring at him whenever he meets her eyes (and it makes him fidget), Mary who has stunning, stormy grey eyes, then Adele who has the softest voice one can imagine. The circle closes on Zayn, Niall, and he.

He’s jutting down an answer when a pebble is thrown at him, not hard, but it’s enough to make him blink and frown. He ignores it and carries on, the slate balanced over his knee, his hand white from the chalk. When another one disturbs him he glances over his shoulder, finding Harry grinning at him. The alpha winks and opens his mouth, planning on telling him something, but he cuts him off.

“Leave me alone,” he hisses, flushing when he turns around and finds Niall’s curious eyes. _God no, fuck,_ he stares at the slate so hard he fears a hole will appear right in its center. He honestly hates Harry Styles and his incapacity to listen to him when he asks to be left alone. He hopes the message has come across as he begins to answer another question, the chats surrounding him barely registering to his brain. He can’t focus on anything, not when Harry leans closer to him and begins speaking.

“Louis,” the alpha whispers, and he closes his eyes in frustration. _Fuck. Off. Read the room, you idiot._

If he expects for Harry to stop, he’s solemnly mistaken. Indeed he feels the alpha’s breath falls upon the back of his neck, then fingers grip his ear and pull, making him gasp and let go of the chalk.

“Carrot!” Harry chuckles, and he freezes as he hears the alphas behind him snickers, or the way the omegas are looking at him, judging, assessing the situation before them; why on earth would Harry Styles take interest in him? And the nickname makes him flush in anger, hating it whenever someone hints to the red undertones in his hair that’s been a source of insecurity for him since day one. He doesn’t know what overtakes him suddenly, but the laughter, the embarrassment, the memories that come back to the surface, from scornful glances to bullying; everything floods him at once until he’s choking for air.

His fingers tighten around the slate and with one swift movement, his arm swings and he feels rather than see, the way the hard, dark surface meets Harry's face, hard. A collective gasp is heard, and his own eyes widen as he understands what he’s just done. The alpha cradles the side of his face, blinking in stupor, and he begins to tremble when he looks down and sees the slate he’s holding, cracked. _What have I done? Oh God what have I done?_ He breathes harshly through his nose as he scrambles to his feet, taking several steps back, noticing the amount of eyes on him. He can’t breathe.

Harry opens his mouth. “I’m so—”, but he’s interrupted by Mrs. Chapman’s stern voice.

“Mr Tomlinson!” she shouts, standing on the porch, her dark eyes on him. He fish-mouths as she gestures for him to come closer. “Is this what orphans are taught to do in that lovely asylum of yours?” she spits disdainfully. “Such behaviour won’t be tolerated in a peaceful, _civilized_ society. Come here to receive your punishment.”

“It wasn’t Louis’ fault,” Harry instantly jumps in, the side of his face red, his eyes wide in alarm. “I taunted him.”

“Mr. Styles, stay out of this,” Mrs. Chapman says, her eyes never leaving him. He wishes the ground would open beneath his feet and swallow him whole; wishes that he could fade into nothingness and that whatever has just happened will be forgotten by everyone. He lets the broken slate fall to the ground, and puts his arms around himself, seeking the kind of comfort no one is willing to provide him with; he who has become the laughing stock of the school. How will he be able to come back after this? He finds Zayn’s worried eyes fixed on him, and despite the fact that his friend isn’t mocking him like the rest of his classmates are doing, he still feels so, so alone. How come Mrs. Chapman punishes him? Didn’t she see that it was Harry who pushed him to the edge?

“Come here right this instant,” she grits out, her voice high-pitched, cruel, sounding a lot like his inner demons that whisper in the dark and sire fright in his dreams, making them turn into nightmares.

Before him lays the classroom, and with its door open it looks a lot like a prison. Four walls that will smash him to naught. But behind him… behind him there are the meadows and the trees and the flowers and wild animals; there’s freedom and no one to judge him.

He’s quick to make up his mind. 

After sending a dark glance to Harry Styles, he spins around on his feet and takes off towards the horizon.

  
  


-

  
  


_“If all the world hated you and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved of you and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends.” — Charlotte Brontë_

Running through knee-deep grass, while the sun sets in the distance, blurring the line between day and night, is as close a feeling to flying as it can get; and the tears that fall down his cheeks, kiss the curve of his throat, and fall down to the daisies, is a way for him to cure the pain and sadness that have wrapped around his heart like deadly fingers. He doesn’t ever stop running; he runs until the air is crisp, devoid of any omega or alpha scent, until it turns bitter to the taste; until the distant roaring of the waves reaches him, like a compass.

He stops just before the edge of the cliff, his soul dizzy, his body shaking. With a gasp he drops to his knees, palms digging into the soft soil, heart pulsing against his ribcage.

The pain takes a while to go away, and even then, fragments of it lingers in the abyss of his being. 

  
  


-

  
  


Convincing Joyce to not send him to school turns out to be easier than expected; but maybe his puffy, red eyes is enough indication that he needs time for himself. Maybe she’s sympathetic enough to understand that it takes time to take roots in a new city, with a new family; or maybe she knows just how useless those school lessons are. He spends days lounging in his bed, collecting eggs, cooking and reading; and he has pushed those underneath his bed, not bearing the sight of them.

A knock on the door startles him from his daydream; he has been glaring at the white ceiling, on which someone Harry Styles’ face has appeared. He turns his head and sees Joyce standing in the doorway, holding a tray of food, which she deposits on the bedside table. But instead of leaving, she sits down on the edge of the bed, her gentle eyes on him. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t do much, really, besides waiting; and maybe it’s because she knows he’ll talk when he’s ready.

Which he does. Pulling the tray on the feather tick, he takes a buttered toad and bites into it.

“Have you ever married, Joyce?” he asks all of a sudden, feeling her tense up, her eyes blinking in astonishment. She quickly composes herself though, holding her knee with her hands.

“No, I have not,” she answers. “I didn’t really have the time for that.”

The bread crunches as he chews, a thin layer of grease appearing on his rosy lips. “Well, I admire you for it,” he admits, fingers digging into the mattress. “I don’t want an alpha.”

She looks at him, her frown deepening. “Louis… it’s not because I haven’t married that you shouldn’t, either. I couldn’t marry because circumstances prevented me from doing so; but that does not mean that finding a partner is a bad thing. Living a life alone… it gets lonely.”

He frowns. “But you had David.”

She grins fondly. “Yes, and I’m glad for that. But he’s my brother. It’s not the same.”

He wants to tell her that he’ll be perfectly happy living with them for the rest of his life, without an alpha by his side. He _doesn’t_ need one, and he’ll be doomed if he ever finds one that will put a seed of doubt within him. As of now, he’s thirsting for knowledge and not for anyone. He wants to learn about the world and not be pushed into a kitchen, having to take care of someone else. 

“I don’t like alphas,” he tells her firmly, biting into his toast aggressively. He waits to swallow his mouthful before talking again. “They’re mean, dumb, cocky. None of them seem good enough.”

She frowns and stands up, beginning to tidy the room. “Did something happen at school?” she asks in a nonchalant voice, folding one of his shirts carefully. He hadn’t realised how messy the room was, too busy wallowing in self-pity and anger.

“No,” he sighs, lying through his teeth. “It’s nothing of importance. Don’t worry.”

Joyce waits several seconds for him to say something else, but when he doesn’t, she goes to the door, smoothing out her apron. She tops and turns to look at him.

“Louis…,” she gulps, eyes soft, nervous, _honest._ “Your happiness is what matters.”

Then she disappears, the statement heavy in the air. It doesn’t take a genius to know she’s referring to herself. His lips fall into a sad pout, and with a sigh he lets his body drop backward onto the lavender-smelling tick. He is thinking of his happiness. He wants to study, and he can’t do that if he’s tied down to some alpha that will want to make a housewife out of him.

_Your happiness is what matters._

But how can it matter in a society that is strongly opposed to it?

  
  


-

  
  


The night is full of hoots and crickets chirping from the brook. He startles awake from a rhythmic noise coming from his window, and with a frown he sits up, groaning as his sore muscles stretch the slightest bit. _What on earth?_ Another tiny sound echoes through the silent room, and he tentatively puts his toes down on the ground, and walks to where the sound seems to come from, and he glances out of the clear glass and into the night. He struggles to see what is going on, but a figure is standing right underneath his bedroom, and with his heart beating in his throat he grabs the nearest thing — his hairbrush — in case he needs to defend himself from an attack. Another noise, and he understands it comes from a pebble. Someone is throwing stones against his window, when it’s still midnight outside.

He quickly slides the sash up and sticks his head out, letting the hairbrush drop down to the person. There’s a little moan of pain, before the voice of whoever is there carries up to his ears, urged forward by the wind, and he freezes.

“Harry?” he whispers, loud enough to be heard, but low enough to not wake up Joyce or David. Lord help him, he’d never hear the end of it; and Harry might take a bullet in between the eye from the gun David keeps in his bedroom.

For a moment, there’s only silence, and as his eyes adjust to the darkness, he sees Harry’s curly hair and eyes fixed on him.

 _“By a name,”_ Harry begins, his voice soft like the chirping of cardinals in the morning. “ _I know not how to tell thee who I am: My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Because it is an enemy to thee; Had I it written, I would tear the word.”_

He freezes, his lips slightly parted as he gazes at the alpha rooted to the spot, seemingly awaiting the omega’s judgement.

“Shakespeare?” he mumbles, his heart growing in size, not expecting that. He’s read Shakespeare’s plays when he once found a book titled _The Complete Works of Shakespeare._ If he remembers correctly, it’s the play Romeo and Juliet, and what Romeo tells Juliet at her balcony. He hates how endearing he finds the act; hates that he is even giving an ounce of his time to the alpha that has humiliated him.

“Shakespeare,” he confirms, and for a while neither of them know what to say or what to do. Louis is torn between telling the alpha to go away, and to never come back; but he also wants to know why Harry has come to his window in the dead of the night, and what it means. To be honest, he hasn’t expected to see the alpha so soon after what occurred. The wound is still raw, it’s still bleeding. It hasn’t started healing.

 _You should go away,_ he wants to say. Instead, he finds himself engaging the conversation, finds himself succumbing to his own weakness, and dangerous yearning.

“What are you doing here?” he asks the alpha, gripping the window still. 

“I want to apologize,” is the answer he gets. Harry puts his hand over his heart. “I wasn’t able to do it earlier, but I want to apologize from the bottom of my heart. I did you wrong, trying to draw your attention to myself. There were a hundred other ways to go, and I chose the wrong one.”

He licks his lips and rests his elbows where his hands are, fearing he might break his fingernails from how hard he’s digging them into the wood.

“Yes,” he gulps. “You chose the wrong one. I don’t understand, Harry. You have fifteen omegas in that classroom, all of them fanning over you, yearning for an ounce of your attention, and yet you seek mine? Are you really so greedy?”

It earns him a soft chuckle from Harry, who shrugs. He tracks the movement with his eyes, glad that he can see anything as the moon casts its purplish blue glow over them.

“Yes, I am,” Harry responds, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because there’s only one omega I wish would pay attention to me, and he wouldn’t.”

Something stirs in his lower belly. It lurks among the veins in his body, warming him up in a way he would have never expected to like. He takes a deep breath.

“What you did hurt me a lot,” he admits, proud of himself as his voice comes out steady. He doesn’t want to sound sad, or downtrodden. He wants to come off as strong, because that’s what he is; a strong omega.

“I know,” Harry ducks his head. “I know,” he repeats, voice smaller. Louis’ heart squeezes painfully but he keeps his face void of any expression.

“You don’t even know me,” he says harshly, and it’s true. He doesn’t know much about the alpha besides his name. Harry is a face in a crowd that he sees for a few seconds and forgets the minute after, and he means just as to the alpha; he’s a flower that blooms in spring and dies in winter, and which is thrown in the trash bin the moment it loses its vibrancy.

Somehow, through the gloom, Harry’s eyes glow green; a spot of colour on the black canvas.

“I’d like to, if you’ll let me.”

 _But you hurt me._ Over near the horizon, the moon stands on puffs of dark clouds, giving the hills, mountains and meadows an ethereal glow. It illuminates Harry’s face in a way that has his breath hitching and his toes curling on themselves.

“I haven’t forgiven you,” he informs Harry, who jerks his head, half-understanding, half-dejected.

“I didn’t expect you to, but I’m willing to do anything to earn it.”

It certainly sounds interesting to have an alpha willing to do anything for him. He tries to think of something, but nothing sparks in his mind, and he stares blankly in the distance. He needs to make the most out of his proposal; has to not waste the opportunity. 

He opens his lips. “I’ll get back to you once I’ve come up with something.”

Then he closes the sash softly, mindful of not being noisy; and he means to go back to his bed and fall back asleep, but instead, he remains near the window, his body and face hidden in the shadow. Harry doesn’t instantly go; he keeps gazing up at the window, waiting for something that Louis can’t figure out. And when Harry turns around and climbs the fence, walking away until he can’t see the alpha anymore, he still remains rooted to the spot, the curtains caressing his cheek, and his heart struggling to calm down.

  
  


-

  
  
  


He’s cleaning the porch when David appears by his side, a pleased grin on his face.

“Louis,” he greets him, gingerly gesturing for him to sit down, which he does with a stunned expression. 

“Is everything alright?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. Instead of an answer, a bag is dropped tenderly to his feet. It’s big and simple, and ignites his curiosity. He tentatively reaches down and opens it, eyes widening as he takes out of the bag, a pair of clean, new, shiny boots.

“Oh— David!” he jumps to his feet and takes the alpha in his arms, who pats him on the back. David smells like sunshine and wet soil and apple pies, and he relaxes as that scent washes over him. “Thank you,” he whispers, grinning as David drops a kiss on top of his head.

“Go on, try them on,” the alpha urges him, stepping back with a smile. Joyce steps through the doorway, a knowing grin lighting up her otherwise stone-faced expression. He can’t believe they both went behind his back, and got him brand new boots! He kicks his old boots away, and slides on the new ones. They reach mid-calf, and are of soft, dark brown leather. They fit him perfectly, though he’ll need to walk in them for a while to loosen the taut fabric.

“Do you like them?” Joyce wonders, bending down to gather his old, worn-out boots.

“Like them? I love them!” he exclaims, standing up and hopping on place to get a feel of them. “They’re perfect. Thank you so much!”

He kisses Joyce on the cheek, and smiles softly at David. He knows these boots much have cost quite the sum, but he can’t bring himself to feel bad about them spending money on him; he’s beyond the moon to have new shoes, seeing as his old ones hurt his feet and were falling apart at the seams.

“Great,” Joyce rasps out, going to the door. She glances over her shoulder. “Figured you need new shoes for Sunday's school picnic. Every family in Avonlea gather together, to chat and whatnot.”

He freezes, hand flying to his mouth. “How come I’ve _just_ learnt about this? Sunday’s tomorrow!”

Before either Joyce or David can answer, he dashes past them and into the house, speeding up to his bedroom. There he gathers his best outfit; a light gray patterned shirt, his trousers, and now his new boots. He feels all the more stressed as there’s a high possibility he will see Harry at that panic, if every family in Avonlea are to come; and he still hasn’t come up with an answer to the alpha’s proposition.

And there’s the gut-wrenching fact that he’ll see his classmates; and though a week has passed since the slate accident, their scornful laughs and mocking eyes are still haunting his nights.

In short, he is doomed.

  
  


-

  
  


The trunk of the birch tree is just wide enough to hide his body, but he still has to crouch down to be properly shielded from the world by the spring-tainted bushes. His heart has been beating at a pace which betrays his mask of tranquility. He’s numb, mostly. How can he not be? The Sunday School picnic is everything he has imagined it to be; wonderful, merry, and painfully hostile to his being.

After all, he is the orphan omega the Tomlinsons had enough pity to accommodate; that idea has rooted itself deep enough within the soil of Avonlea that very few are willing to picture him as anything but such. He can remember the stares, the subtle glances, the laughs hidden behind hands; just the overall, unwelcoming welcome he received when he stepped foot into the garden in which the picnic is hosted once a month.

He can’t even find it in himself to cry; he’s just numb. He doesn’t feel. Being cast away is something he’s always been subject to; why would it be any different here, in Avonlea? He spots a little daisy growing where one of the birch’s tree roots juts out of the soil, and he plucks it, smiling sadly down at its soft petals.

“I wish they’d be nicer to me,” he whispers to the flower, urged to confess by the knowledge that the flower won’t answer him. “I wish they’d open their door to me, to see what kind of person I’m like. But close-mindedness plagues this city, and I'm a victim of it.”

He lets his forefinger caress the center of the bloom. “I’m so lost, I don’t know what to do,” he admits to the wind and the birds above his head. “I only have Joyce and David, and Zayn, but I can’t help but wish for more. I wish I’d be accepted by the town’s people. I wish… I wish for so many things, but I can’t order them.”

He begins plucking petals after petals, reducing the flower to a tiny dot of yellow. He feels a lot as if he were the flower; the mean words are, each time, tearing at his soul, taking a chunk of it and leaving him with only a beating, aching heart.

He shouldn’t complain — he’s gotten what he’s always wanted; a family. He has a friend, Zayn, who he can rely on; and he dresses in clean clothes and can take baths. If he isn’t liked by anyone in Avonlea besides those three people — and potentially a fourth, if including Harry Styles; but truthfully, he’d rather not —, then so be it. 

He wishes for one thing, though. He looks at the last petal awaiting to be torn away from its main source of nutrients. He wants to study; he wants to learn about the world, wants to cultivate his imagination and his knowledge in all kinds of fields. He wants to continue school, but not one about cooking and stitching and the likes; but a school where he can learn the power of words and numbers. He closes his eyes and imagines himself a doctor, or a teacher (and one that won’t teach bullshits to young omegas), or even a writer; then he plucks the last petal, blowing on it and watching as it flies away.

 _Make my wish come true, dear little petal._ He smiles sadly as he drops the stem.

A twig cracking makes him freeze, and he slowly looks to the left, groaning when he sees Zayn approaching him.

“I’m sad,” he admits, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around himself. “I will shit all over your mood if you come any nearer.”

Zayn huffs and drops down next to him, pulling him into a one-sided hug.

“First of all, mind your language,” Zayn grins. “Second of all, I missed you.”

Zayn quiets down and kisses his temple, and he snuggles further into the omega’s sweet-smelling clothes.

“And?” he asks, looking blankly at the layer of leaves and grass at their feet.

“And what?”

“Well,” he clears his throat. “When you say firstly, secondly… etcetera, you need to say lastly to close your enumeration.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Zayn says without heat, rubbing his arm. “Well, last but not least; why did you run away from the party?”

He leans back and looks at Zayn in disbelief, because is the omega really asking that question? Isn’t it obvious? If he hears anymore comments about how he is a ‘stray who was plucked from an asylum’ or ‘a servant’ or an ‘omega of bad blood and name’ or, and he still can’t believe he’s been told that to his face, a ‘potential mate for David’, he may very well lose his mind. He never wants to see any of these people ever again; he’s fine in his room at Green Gables or by the brook with Zayn. The black-haired omega grimaces and pulls him against his vest, probably at a loss for words but hoping he can cheer Louis up with cuddles.

It doesn’t work.

But he doesn’t say anything.

The sky has progressed further down into gloom, with dark clouds growling. The first drop of rain scatters the party like pieces of a jigsaw thrown out to the wind, and he can picture the ocean’s waves rising high up in the sky, crashing against the rocky edge of the cliff. Zayn drags him to his feet and pulls him towards the open space; and he lets himself be manoeuvred away from the wild, though his mind drifts elsewhere. He isn’t in Avonlea anymore; he’s the bird that shakes rain drops from its feathers; the wood that soaks up the water; the soil that turns mushy. He smiles and looks up at the sky, and lets the cold water washes over him, taking away with it his pain and his sins.

“Louis, c’mon!” Zayn tugs on his arm, begging him to come. He shakes his head.

“Go,” he mutters, dropping to his knees. “I’ll stay a while.”

He sees Zayn hesitating, eyes twitching, unsure; fingers itching to grab him. But at last, the black-haired omega leaves him to his thoughts.

“Stay safe” are the last words he hears before he’s alone in the rain.

There’s a peacefulness to the rain that has always brought comfort to him, even in the hardest of times. Sometimes, as the heavens above pour over the world their sorrow, he feels as if they’re weeping alongside him. He’s soaked to the bones, hair straight and falling into his face; clothes heavy on his body. He isn’t sure he’ll come out of his unscathed; maybe a cough and a runny nose, or worse, a fever. Still, he remains exactly where he is, putting his chin over his knee.

He is alone in an overcrowded world, for the first time in a while he’s glad for the silence all around him. The sound of the rain coming down in thick drops and meeting the nourished vegetation all around him lullabies his thoughts into more acceptable territory. He doesn’t know what he’s doing there, somewhere in Canada, where city fever hasn’t touched the pure soil of Avonlea; but he knows that he’s longing for more.

“Louis!” he hears being called from the depth of darkness and fog. Water lingers on his eyelashes as he turns around to where he believes the voice is coming from; and yet he is met with the dull stare of birch trees whose white trunks shine, edges blurred by the mist, and the emptiness of bushes sunk into abysmal gloom. _“Louis,”_ he hears being said closer to his body, stroking his soul. Fingers grip his thighs, his arms; one moment he’s on the ground, the next the breeze reaches the soiled-part of his limbs, and he’s staring into green, green, and very angry eyes.

He blinks in stupor as Harry takes off out of the garden, his grip tight around the omega’s body; as if fearing Louis might slip through his fingers if he isn’t careful enough. Without a word they walk through the woods, two lone wolves looking for solace; and tentatively, he lays his temple on Harry’s shoulder. The petrichor smell mixes up with Harry’s, offering an undertone of warmth as the world turns to ice progressively all around them. In the mist of woodsy smells, Harry’s is the brightest; it shines alongside shoals of honeysuckle, primrose buds and string of bluebells; and it shines brighter and brighter as his heart begins to slow, slow down.

He closes his eyes, and doesn’t open them again.

  
  


-

  
  


The sun purges into the grass, baking it until from it waltzes a smell that makes the birds giggle and the flowers sway in dizziness. The contrast between the rain and the sun brings cumbersome coats of mist and clouds; and the sunshines struggles to filter through them, but even without its presence, except for lucky patches of earth that are slowly warming up, the world is alight with glistening rain dews and the smell of damp soil.

When he wakes up, it isn’t to sunbeams eating at his face like starved dogs; it’s to a hand caressing his forehead, his cheek; and it’s to a cool cloth being dabbed against his feverish skin. He’s hot, oh so hot; he yearns for a cold bath, but he can’t even find it in himself to move at all. The bedsheets and pillows are too welcoming. They’re soft and smell nice.

They smell like Harry.

The thought would have made him startle completely awake, with eyes as wide as planets, but too sore and sleep-infused, he remains where he is and only allows for his puffy eyelids to flutter open. He must be a sight to sore eyes; white with only the apples of his cheeks and tip of his nose red from fever, eyes shining wet from his clogged and scratchy, tingling throat. Harry is gazing at him with an unreadable expression, except there’s a layer of softness to him that has the omega known that Harry isn’t completely mad.

“You’re sick,” Harry states, pulling the feather blanket tighter around Louis’ body, tucking him in. “Wonder why,” he adds with dry sarcasm.

Louis clears his throat and speaks, flinching at how feeble it comes out. “Where am I?”

Harry is silent for several seconds. “My house.”

The alpha stands up, and Louis sees he’s dressed in tight trousers and a simple white shirt that’s opened for the better half of his chest, letting his pecs peek out teasingly. Flushing, he turns his head to the window. His eyelids are so heavy that they begin to droop, but he is coherent enough to feel when Harry bends over him, and drops a kiss to his sweaty temple. He hums in disagreement, resulting in Harry chucklin.

“Still mad at me?” the alpha whispers near his ear, amusement colouring the tone of his voice; and he can only hum again, this time louder, whinier. He’s being a brat, he knows it. But at least Harry understands him enough to humour him.

“Alright, love,” Harry stands up just as he loses consciousness. “Sleep tight.”

  
  


-

  
  


The next time he wakes up, he feels a lot better. At least he can keep his eyes open, though he can’t stop coughing and his throat hurts. He sits up and leans his back against the bedpost, and when he glances down, he blanches.

He’s been stripped completely, and is only dressed in an oversized shirt, the sleeves having been rolled up to his elbow messily. He doesn’t quite pale at the choice of outfit; no, it’s the way that Harry’s scent clings to every inch of fabric that has him throw the feather tick to the side and storm out of Harry’s bedroom (or so he assumes it is). The house doesn’t have a floor, so he ends up directly in the kitchen. For a moment, he has to lean against the wall as he sways, his temples throbbing and his vision swimming.

Harry is nowhere in sight, but the alpha soon walks through the door, a basket full of fruits on his forearm. Harry drops it hastily on the dining table when he sees the omega struggling to remain upwards. He sees Harry rush to him, arms already to embrace him, but he holds his hands up, stopping the alpha.

“I’m still mad at you,” he says, biting his lip as Harry’s face goes from worried to perplexed.

“I hardly think that matters right now,” Harry sighs, creeping closer. “Let me help you.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Yes,” Harry retorts with a smile, swiftly wrapping his arms around the omega’s thighs and lifting him up. Louis shrieks — or tries to, for his voice gives out at the end — and hits Harry’s back repeatedly, though it doesn’t do a single thing to the alpha besides make him land a gentle blow on his _ass._ He gasps and flushes bright red, fingers digging into Harry’s vest.

“I’m not your omega,” he grits out as Harry takes them to his room again. “You have no right to behave that way. You’re vile!”

He squeals as he’s dropped down onto the bed, Harry looming over him, green eyes dark and focused on him. He doesn’t know where the thought comes from; doesn’t know what overtakes him… but he wants to push his thighs further apart so Harry has a place to nestle. He begins to shake as he realizes what he is actually thinking, and with a scowl at the alpha, he turns around and goes to the pillows on all four, dropping there into a ball of sickness. 

Harry pulls the tick from underneath his body, and delicately lays it down again up to his throat. “Stay put. I’m going to cook you something.”

Then he disappears as quickly as he came in, leaving Louis flustered and embarrassed and, above all, angry at himself. He can’t— he can’t be thinking like that about the alpha that has humiliated him. He can’t be feeling that way for anyone, actually; his goals don’t coincide with his treacherous thoughts.

Naturally, he doesn’t listen to Harry; he decides to wreak havoc in the room, and he finds it much more interesting than he originally thought. It’s a gold mine; the cupboards are filled with books, from novels to textbooks, and on all kinds of topics. He has no qualm about taking them all out, scattering them over the wooden floor. He sits down and grabs the nearest one, and opens it. Though the words don’t make much sense, he can tell it’s physics — and how incredibly interesting it is! The pages are well-loved, dog ears disturbing the shape of the sheets. He filters through book after book even though most of the notions he can’t understand. It’s only when he reaches the novels that he feels a bit more tied to the earth, and a lot less frustrated at himself. He wants to understand physics! He wants to know about chemistry and the likes. He bites his lips as he puts on his lap, a copy of _Wuthering Heights._ He notices that the novels are less worn-out than the textbooks; and he deduces that Harry isn’t all that into stories.

He keeps _Wuthering Heights_ on his lap as he curiously takes _Romeo and Juliet_ ; and with apprehension, he goes to the balcony scene. He doesn’t know why he is surprised when he finds the part that Harry had recited him all those night ago, circled several times in pencil; but he still is, cheeks flushed not from his sick body but because he’s picturing Harry trying to remember those sentences, and learning them in the dead of the night, when sleep wouldn’t come to him.

 _Silly alpha,_ he shakes his head with a grin and glances down at the book on his lap; at its dark cover. He’s read it already; and how much he has loved it! He looks around at the books, lets himself be completely overtaken by the joy that comes with knowing he can learn about anything his heart desires. There are books on history, geography, physics, algebra, analysis, and literature; more books linger, hidden amongst piles throughout the room that he hasn’t looked at.

Suddenly, he knows exactly what he’s going to ask Harry. 

He’s buzzing with excitement, unable to contain his excitement as he waits for Harry to come back. It doesn’t take long; the door is pushed open and in comes Harry, holding a tray with a curved plate in the center with a tall glass of water. He nearly trips on a book, but uses his spine strength to keep himself upright.

“What on earth,” he mutters, blinking down at Louis and the mess that surrounds the omega. He puts the tray on the bed and fish-mouths, wondering what has gone through the omega’s head to pull out more than fifty books on the ground. 

Louis bites his lips, caressing the hardcover of _Wuthering Heights. “I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.”_

Harry frowns, not understanding. He slowly drops to his knees, pushing some books to the side so he can fit his broad body in a way that allows him to lean against the bed. He scrutinizes the omega before him, a bit as if he were faced with a riddle and the answer is obvious, though too far to grasp. With a flush Louis looks down, feeling hot as those green eyes won’t leave him; his skin is on fire, and not from his poor condition.

“I’m telling you, with the help of Emily Brontë herself,” he says, gently waving _Wuthering Heights_ in front of the alpha’s face. “That I know what you can do for me.”

The confusion clear from Harry’s face, and he leans closer, excited, relief sparkling within those green irises. With a wicked little smile, Louis gestures to the books all around him.

“I want you to let me study these,” he proclaims, loud and clear, unwavering. Though he does not dare meet the alpha’s eyes; not when there’s a slight possibility that Harry will refuse, will tell him studying isn’t for omegas. His heart would break if Harry turns out to think that way, and he holds his breath as he awaits the final words.

“Is that all?”

He blinks and snaps his head towards Harry, who is looking at him oh so softly. Lips tightly pressed to one another, he nods. Harry hums and pulls the tray on his lap.

“I will accept on one condition,” the alpha tells him, and the weight in his guts reappear. He frowns, eye twitching.

“You’re in no position to ask anything from me,” he grits out. Has the alpha forgotten he owes Louis?

“These are my books,” Harry shrugs, and _stupid fucking dumb idiotic alpha,_ he mentally spits, huffing and raising an eyebrow to urge Harry on.

Harry grins mischievously. “I’ll accept your proposition, if you let me feed you.”

He freezes, then flushes scarlet. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” Harry answers, pulling the bowl of broth closer to himself, brandishing the spoon. Louis rolls his eyes and sighs loudly, letting himself be spoon-fed hot soup. Though he pretends to hate it, in the end there’s a warmness in his heart that he’d rather carry to his grave than admit the existence of.

  
  


-

  
  


“It’s final,” Joyce snaps, gesturing for him to go to his room. There’s the fragrance of baked pies in the air along with the warmth of the oven that adds to the heat outside; and he looks at her in disbelief, and flushes with embarrassment because Harry is literally standing in the doorway, witnessing him getting scolded by Joyce.

“That’s unfair,” he deadpans, following her around. “And you know it.”

“You didn’t have to go around playing in the rain, now look at you,” she gestures at the thick coat Harry gave him (which he tried with all his strength to refuse, but the alpha wouldn’t hear it), his red nose and wet eyes. He sniffs and looks down at his feet. He hears her sigh. “Just… go up to your room. I’ll bring you tea and some broth,” then she turns to Harry, eyeing him from head to toe. “Thank you, Harry, for bringing him back.”

Harry takes off his corduroy hat — Louis hates how it suits the alpha — and puts it over his chest, bowing slightly. “Of course. Louis just got delayed by the rain; he was trying to find his way back to Green Gables.”

Joyce hums suspiciously, piling up plates and putting them into the cupboard. He looks at the alpha, surprised; he expected for Harry to tell Joyce just how foolish he had been, sitting into the rain like some tragic heroine. He offers a tiny smile at the alpha and spins around, knowing fully-well it’s no use to argue with Joyce; her mind is firmly set on his punishment, and he is to remain in his room for an entire week. He can feel Harry’s eyes on his back as he goes to the stair taking them two at a time, trying to punch out of his mind the way Harry has taken care of him.

He doesn’t know what it means that Harry has spoon-fed him, has tucked him in, has agreed to letting him study his books, has poured him a hot bath and has insisted on lending him his thickest coat. He’s felt better the moment Harry has agreed to his proposition, but despite his reassuring words Harry was dead set on taking care of him. 

He huffs as he throws open the door of the east gable room, instantly throwing his body on the bed. He closes his eyes as he inhales his own scent littering the feather tick, then turns his nose into the collar of the coat wrapped around himself. The cocktail his and Harry’s scents provide momentarily makes him dizzy. He’s not used to having an alpha’s scent all over his body. He’d always steered clear of alphas back at the asylum, mostly because he wanted to punch all of them in the nose.

He has wanted to slap Harry only two times since he woke up; which is a fit, really.

He rolls over and wipes his teary eyes. Outside, the sun has turned into red hues of sunset; and purple taints the sky like drops of paint swirling a jug of water. It’s to the chirping of the birds and the soft taping of the cherry-tree boughs against the wall that he falls asleep, though his mind keeps churning, shook to the core by the turn of events.

  
  


-

  
  


“Louis,” Joyce calls from downstairs, her voice ricocheting against the walls, pulling him away from _The Monk._ He’s been reading it since he woke up, mind still foggy from his poor condition. It’s a wonder at all he’s able to take in the words, especially when his temples have been throbbing; that, and he’s been feeling down from being forced to remain in bed. He’s eighteen years old, why on earth would Joyce scold him? 

He doesn’t answer, knowing fully-well she’ll appear in the doorway eventually. He had fallen asleep the night prior before drinking his tea and eating the broth, so she’s undoubtedly whisked up a hearty breakfast. 

As expected, the click of boots join the pacing of his reading, and Joyce enters his room, a tray in her hands and a basket hanging from her forearm. It’s to the latter that he frowns at, tilting his head in curiosity. _Please, don’t be medicines,_ he mentally begs; he loathes medicines, firstly because they taste like sewage water (not that he has tasted any), and secondly because he’s not sure they’re actually _efficient._ Nothing can top the good old recipe of honey melted into lemon water to soothe out a cough.

“I hope you slept well,” Joyce says, putting the tray down and instantly pushing his fringe away to get a feel for his skin. She hums. “It’s gone down.”

He wants to say, _obviously,_ but he doesn’t think she’d appreciate his sass and he doesn’t want to worsen her anger towards him. So he remains quiet as she takes his book away, gently puts it down, and replaces it by the tray. Eggs sprinkled with pepper and salt greet him, with toasted bread greased with butter and a tall glass of fresh orange juice. 

“Also,” she tells him as he takes a small bite from the bread. He isn’t hungry, his stomach still upset and turning at the smell of eggs; but he ignores it and makes an effort to get some proteins in. “Harry dropped this by,” she puts the basket down next to him as he freezes upon hearing the alpha’s name, mouth hanging open.

“Oh,” he says stupidly, blushing as she gives him a pointed look.

“I’ve known that boy since his birth,” Joyce tells him, a small smile gracing her face. “He’s a good al—”

Before she can finish her sentence, he pushes his forefingers into his ears, spouting out a chorus of _‘blah blah blah blah I can’t hear you blah blah blah!’_ loudly; only stopping when she closes her mouth and looks at him in fond exasperation. He does not need for Joyce to try and match him up with Harry Styles of all people; he isn’t interested in finding an alpha, and he prays his sentiments will remain that way. He gestures for Joyce to go away, eager to know what is in the basket, and when she does, though not without staring at him with wise eyes that seem to be able to read between the lines of his doubts, he jumps onto the cloth covering the straw basket.

Gerard’s _History of the United States_ smiles at him as, with trembling fingers, he takes it out of its comfortable confines. But then he realizes it’s not alone; it has made the trip with Greenleaf’s _The Complete Arithmetics,_ Greene’s _English Grammar_ and _Elements of Algebra._ All of them feel nice to the touch, their leather cover slightly withered from age; and he puts them all on his lap and gazes at them with enough wonder to rival a child meeting up with Father Christmas. His heart is pounding against his rib cage like wood sticks against drums, loud, echoing, deep and unforgiving. He presses the tip of his fingers in his eyes as the first tears slide down his cheeks.

It’s just— it’s such a nice thing to do. He has been feeling down since he’s been told he couldn’t go out until further notice, and that mostly because he won’t be able to go over to Harry’s to begin studying. But these books are thick, smell like sunshine, and provide enough scope for the imagination to last him a month.

“Why are you so nice, Harry Styles?” he whispers to the quiet room, more to himself than the gaping ears of the cherry-tree. It’s hard to not like the alpha when he’s willing to humor him in his unrealistic goals. With a deep breath, he takes _History of the United States._ He’s heard of the United States in fleeting pages of newspapers that the matron would read in the morning with her steaming cup of tea; has heard of it when an American couple came to the asylum, expressing their wishes to adopt. Flora had been the omega girl they had picked, although he had wished they would have taken interest in his thirteen-year-old self. He’s convinced they fell in love with her golden curls and bright blue eyes and her beautiful name, all of which sound much better than his reddish brown hair that could only remind one of soaked burnt wood, or his dull greyish blue eyes that parallel a stormy sky — and _Louis!_ How could his name compete with Flora? The bitter taste of rejection has stung his tongue until it was swollen; and he hasn’t talked for two weeks. But despite the bad memory, he can remember their accent and their clothes.

He doesn’t open the textbook right away lest his tears would taint the pages. But once he has calmed down, he opens it to the first page, and begins to read, soaking in words about wars and growing colonies, until time becomes an unknown concept, his breakfast goes cold, and outside the landscape goes through a timelapse of chimera as the circle of the day repeats itself. Night falls in, birds go to sleep to leave place for the owls, the trees grow quiet as the breeze follows its way to the north, away from Avonlea; and Louis…

He doesn’t ever stop reading.

  
  


-

  
  


Papers scattered all over the floor, covering the wood; ink-stained fingers that brush against their delicate surfaces; pens that roll to the bed legs. Damp-smelling sunlight that filters through his window, caressing the furniture and the side of his face. His eyes, red and puffy, close on themselves and his forehead thumps against _The Complete Arithmetics._ Heels stomp over the ground, and Joyce appears in the doorway, her stern face barely visible as his vision sways.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” she says, glaring down at him disapprovingly. “Go to bed right this instant.”

“I don’t—” he begins, though he yawns mid-sentence, and with a finger pointed at the sheets, Joyce compels him to follow through with her demand. He huffs and drags his body to the feather tick, falling face first into the pillow.

He doesn’t see Joyce as she bends down to grab one of the books, reading the title with a stunned expression.

“What on earth are you reading?” she asks aloud, stepping around the papers black from his notes. He hums and turns his face to the side.

“Books,” he deadpans, which earns him narrowed-eyes that he knows too well means he shouldn’t mess around with Joyce right now. So he sighs, louder, exhaustion coming out of his mouth alongside the breeze his lungs punch out. “To study.”

Joyce rubs her temples. “You shouldn’t be studying arithmetics, or history, Louis.”

She sits down on the mattress, her conflicted eyes on the messy floor. He feels his heart drop to his guts. What if she takes away the books? What if she rips from him, his one-way tickets to college? His fingers grip the tick, nails digging into the soft fabric.

“Please,” he mutters shakily, tired, oh so tired. “They make me happy.”

Didn’t she say his happiness is what matters? If he had the strength, he would have reminded her of her words. He hasn’t felt this happy in… forever. There’s a pleasure in learning and getting smarter that he’s grown addicted to; he can’t go without it, wouldn't bear being torn away from the yellowed pages of Harry’s textbooks. He wishes he could tell her all of it, but the words won’t come out. His muscles have grown numb from exhaustion, and with one last clench of his fingers, he falls asleep.

  
  


-

  
  


He’s able to unfold his wings and take flight out of the house on a beautiful morning, when Joyce tells him he’s no longer grounded. His face lights up like lanterns in the dark sky, and before she can say another word, he’s bouncing out of the door and running through the meadow.

He follows the curve of the brook until Orchard slope is in his sight, always so splendid as the sunlight bounces off its walls, creating a halo of light all around it. Butterflies fly all around in the garden, which is barely concealed by the high fences, weeds growing in between the wooden beams’ gap; and once in front of the door, he knocks, excitement thrumming through his veins.

He’s been wanting to tell Zayn about his studying what the alphas study. He knows he might not get a satisfactory reaction out of the omega, but he knows Zayn’s opinion won’t matter in his pursuits. He needs to let his secret out of Green Gables. It gives him such a thrill! Already he is eager to whirl around and go back to the books, that he’s left on the bed, surrounded by an endless amount of sheets of notes and empty bottles of ink.

Zayn is the one to answer, thankfully; and the black-haired omega doesn’t have time to express his surprise at seeing Louis, for the blue-eyed omega bounces on his friend.

“You have to come!” he squeals, only jerking his head when Zayn asks him to wait a bit for him to warn his mother of his whereabouts. He’s missed Zayn’s comforting, soft scent, and once the omega has closed the door, Louis takes his hands and drags him down to Green Gables.

The trees must tickle from the amount of excitement that radiates from his every pore, and indeed, even Zayn is smiling. The black-haired omega is dressed in a simple shirt, a light blue vest, and his usual dark, high-waisted trousers and shiny boots. Louis’ heart threatens to beat right out of his chest.

“What is the matter?” Zayn wonders, chuckling as he pulls on the omega’s hand even more.

“I have something to share with you,” he answers, smiling wickedly. Twigs crunch underneath the soles of his boots, and a single drop of water falls onto his cheek from the canopy above; how lovely it is to finally be outside! He’s been yearning for the delicate perfume of the wild, for the scattered bushes and sneaky little animals perched on the boughs. He’s been gazing at the brook from his window, wanting to dip his toes in the cold water… and the grass! They’ve been calling out for him, yearning for his caresses, missing the sound of his laughter.

He wants to stop and drop down next to the stream of water, and never get up. Even better, he wants to study near the water, which would make for a lovely background noise, relaxing and constant, on his tummy, with his bare feet kicking the air, rosy toes basking in the sun.

But right now, he needs to show Zayn what he’s been up to.

They walk through the fence, and though he can’t see David anywhere, he can smell the alpha, who is busy with the cows. Liam is in the barn, working the hay. He has warmed up the alpha since their first encounter; not so much so as to talk to him because he wants to, but he doesn’t despise the alpha’s presence as much as he used to. Having Liam means having more time to study; so he’s glad that David has carried through his plan to hire Liam, though of course he won’t ever admit it out loud. 

“Hi, Liam!” he calls out, waving at the alpha as he stops working and waves back, hay hook in hands.

“Louis,” Liam nods, eyes instantly focusing on Zayn. They seem to grow wide, a flush befalling the apples of his cheeks, noticeable despite his flushed skin, sweaty from labour and the blithering sun. Louis blinks in astonishment as Liam seems to flounder for a while, until the alpha simply whirls around and disappears further into the barn, where they can’t see him any more.

 _“Weird,”_ he mutters, pulling Zayn to the house, though the omega is practically dead weight. He glances over his shoulders and frowns when he finds Zayn’s eyes lingering on the barn.

“Who was that?” Zayn asks, brown, honey-sprinkled eyes finally focusing back on him.

He raises an eyebrow at his friend’s question, though he’s much too busy opening the door and dodging a frantic Joyce — they have guests coming over — to look too much into it. “That was Liam, the alpha David hired to help him through harvest.”

Zayn is silent for several seconds as they go up the stairs. Again, he isn’t too preoccupied by this odd behaviour as they draw nearer to his room, and therefore to the world he’s trying to build — to the books and notes and stains of ink. The doorknob screeches as he lets the door bang softly against the wall — he really should do something about it — and pulls them into the room. He lets go of Zayn’s hand in favour of closing the wooden door, and as he turns around, he isn’t surprised to find that Zayn has already rounded the room, eyes fixed on the white sheets dusting the ground, as well as the opened textbooks.

“Arithmetic?” Zayn whispers, crouching down to caress the textbook’s cover. “The United States?” he wonders as he reads over one of Louis’ notes. “Where did you find these?”

It’s a question he hasn’t quite anticipated; should he admit he’s gotten them from Harry Styles? He’s not sure of how Zayn would react to _that;_ Harry is, after all, the alpha who has driven him away from school, who has annoyed him quite a lot at the beginning. Harry is also, plain and simple, an _alpha,_ and hasn’t he sworn to never get close to one? Isn’t it in his philosophy that one doesn’t need an alpha to thrive? He bites his lip and goes to his bed, sitting down, the tick soft underneath his palms. His heart is beating fast, way too fast to be considered normal; and he’s half-afraid Zayn can hear it from his position on the floor. He doesn’t say anything for a while, letting his friend get acquainted with his messy handwriting. He’s spent nights and days doing figures and solving problems, and has gobbled down the history textbook. His sleepless nights can be read in the dark blue circles etched in his face and the white of his eyes that has turned slightly red from exhaustion. He licks his chapped lips and slowly joins Zayn on the hard floor.

“Louis,” Zayn repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Did you steal these from the alpha’s library?”

He goes to snort, thinking the idea ridiculous; but he stops himself and instead, giggles, pushing his hand against his mouth. Stealing would have been his option had he not found Harry Styles and his books, and tears gather in the corners of his eyelids. How ridiculous everything is! He stops as he sees Zayn’s worried expression, though he’s not sure once the truth is out, it will go away.

“I didn’t steal anything,” he reassures his friend, taking one of the books and caressing its front cover with a reverence he’s always possessed when it comes to the tiniest thing, be it a wild rose or a book. He smiles gently, practically to himself; emotional once again. “Harry Styles lent me these.”

If a needle had fallen into a pile of hay in the barn, they would have heard it from how silent Zayn has gotten. He’s not sure he wants to glance up and find a disapproved face, so he keeps his blue irises trailed on the scars maring the leather of the book, a clear sign of use and age. And deep down he can’t help wondering, have these books belonged to Harry’s father? Is he holding an object of value that has gone down through generations? He’s never held anything that could be considered as a family heirloom; and he sure thinks that books make for perfect heirlooms. He’d found in the English book, a little note written in pencil the year, 1804.

“So…” Zayn begins, putting down his notes, face open but eyes slightly troubled. “Where did you find them?”

“The answer begins with an H and ends with an S,” he bites his lips, hoping Zayn would understand without making him say the name out loud. There’s power in words. The black-haired omega’s frown deepens, until it seems to click for his eyes go wide and his lips drop open.

“Harry?” he squeals, blinking. _“How?”_

He flounders for a second. He won’t say he spent a night at Harry’s house! He staunchly refuses to; he’d rather take the tale to his grave, in fact. So he shrugs and comes up with a portion of the truth that won’t reveal too much of what has transpired.

“It’s his way of apologizing for what occurred at school,” he tells Zayn, drawing his knees to his chest and circling them with his arms. “He agreed to let me study his textbooks.”

Zayn looks at the mess all around them. “So,” he begins tentatively. “You’re not coming back to school?”

“Nope,” he chirps, shrugging. He will be his own school, Mrs. Chapman be damned.

“Has Joyce agreed to that?”

“She can teach me the omega lessons herself,” he tells Zayn, hoping to reassure his troubled friend. His voice becomes more serious, and a drop of sadness appears in the downside curve of his lips. “I’m sorry to leave you alone at school, but I just… can’t go back. It’s no place for me, Zayn. This,” he gestures at the books. “This is what I want to learn. I want to go to college.”

Zayn’s eyes nearly bug out of their sockets, though there’s also a smile spreading over his face.

 _“College?_ Now that’s something I want to see,” Zayn crawls closer to him, taking him in a hug. “You’ll do amazing, I’m sure,” he whispers in the blue-eyed omega’s hair. 

Neither of them want to mention how very unlikely it is for him to be accepted at a college at all. While the city might be more progressive in terms of ideas than the countryside, there’s no doubt about the fact that omegas are still considered as unfit to pursue a professional career. Merit isn’t something rooted into the educational system, but genders are powerful, and Louis? He’s been graced with the lowliest of them. That does not mean he doesn’t like being an omega. He is as strong as any other alpha, maybe not physically because biologically, he is built differently; but the strength of his character knows no limit. He’s bright and is quick to learn, both with sheer will and motivation. He doesn’t let himself be trampled, and he speaks his mind when he needs to.

So they don’t talk about broken dreams and unreachable goals; instead, Zayn questions him about the United States, what a matrix entry is, and what polynomial equations are. He’s all too happy to answer, demonstrating whenever he can, and they spend the afternoon like that, on the floor, heads deep in open textbooks. Even Zayn has taken a keen interest in history, and hasn’t been able to let go of the book on the United States, which Louis didn’t mind since he had finished reading it a while ago and had jotted down the most relevant information. It feels good to be sharing such an intimate moment with his friend; and it feels even better to know he isn’t judged for his new hobby.

Joyce appears in the doorway at one point, drying up her wet hands on the apron tied around her waist. She smiles as she sees them together, though it turns apologetic as she calls out for Zayn’s attention.

“It’s time you go home,” she tells him. “The minister will eat with us tonight. He should arrive in two hours or so, which Louis could use to prepare himself.”

“Of course,” Zayn scrambles to his feet and turns to him. “I’ll see you soon?”

He nods. “Sure!”

As Zayn walks out of his room, the sound of his steps fading as he exits the house, he goes to the window and waves at his friend. The overgrown grass is waving gently to the breeze, and it doesn’t take long for the woods to engulf Zayn’s figure as well as his scent, which steadily wafts from the pages of the books to which it has clung. He sighs and stretches slightly, humming in delight as his muscles relax. He’s been feeling a lot better, his cough having disappeared after drinking honey water several times throughout the week; but he still needs to get his body up and running again, especially after lounging in bed for hours on end. 

“Please, clean your room,” Joyce asks him, fixing him with a pointed look. “Also go take a bath and change into more appropriate clothes. The minister wants to meet you.”.

He frowns. “Why does he want to meet me?”

“It’s in his habits to pay a visit to newcomers. I pray you’ll behave well.”

She disappears, leaving him blinking after her. With a sigh he begins to organize his notes, putting them into categories, regardless of their state as a mess of black ink and scratched out words. Then he gathers the books onto the bedside table and goes to prepare himself a hot bath. It’s quite the pain to do it; he has to heat up water over the fire in the kitchen, then carry the buckets to the bathroom upstairs. The buckets are, thankfully, large and deep so he has to make the trip only six times to fill half of the bathtub; but whenever he undergoes the challenge, he nearly loses an arm from how heavy the buckets are. He never complains though. If David or Joyce are around, they help him; but if they aren’t, he doesn’t mind doing it all on his own.

Steam rises from the hot water as he wipes his sweaty forehead, and after closing the door, he strips naked and tests the water’s temperature with his fingers. It’s perfect, not so hot so as to burn his skin but not so cold so as to make him shiver. He sits down in the metal bathtub, protected from its rough seams by a piece of linen sheet, and he relaxes fully until the back of his head hits the edge of the tub. It doesn’t take long for the mirror to his right to fog up, or for his hair to curl as the dampness surrounding him penetrates the fine strands. A jug of liquid soap awaits him on the ground, and he reaches for it, pouring a small amount in his palm and rubbing it into his skin, first on his arms, then progressing to the back of his neck, his shoulders. When he stands up, he dances his soapy fingers over his chest, his nipples, his belly… then further down. He washes himself thoroughly until he smells like roses.

He’s careful as he steps out and wraps a towel around his body, quickly rubbing the soft fabric to pick up the drops of water. Then he opens the door, looks left and right to make sure he’s well and truly alone, before he makes a dash for his room.

There he pulls the curtains down over the window, the breeze making them flutter. They bask the room into a pale yellow glow as he jumps into his trousers, puts on a shirt, his boots, and then at last his suspenders. He uses the towel to dry his hair a bit, until it fluffs up and he can style it however he wants. To avoid having his fringe falling into his eyes repeatedly, he ties the red strip Joyce gave him around his head, making a pretty little bow on top of his head. He spends several seconds just looking at himself in the mirror; his skin has tanned up from being outdoors so much and having the sun kissing his skin directly. His freckles stand out a bit less now that he isn’t as pale as he used to be; before, he would be confined within the four walls of the asylum for most of his life, where the sun didn’t want to come, scared of the gloom that was so typical to the place. His lips are rosy, pretty, slightly plump; and he’s put on a bit of weight since arriving, probably because he’s actually happy. He looks good, he concludes, except for his hair which seems to have become even more red.

He pouts. “How I wish you were completely brown,” he sighs, spinning around and pushing the curtain back to their original position. The day’s too beautiful to mope about the state of his hair, and the night promises to be full of stars.

As the sun disappears past the horizon-line, and the moon soars up into the sky, his ears pick up the faraway echo of horse hooves hitting the ground, and a carriage is pulled next to the barn. David is there too, closing the fence, and with apprehension, he slowly makes his way downstairs. 

He hasn’t heard a single thing about the minister, though he hopes the night goes well. He figures as long as he keeps his mouth shut, there’s no reason for a catastrophe to occur. He helps Joyce around in the kitchen by toasting some bread and moulding a bit of butter. Joyce has cooked chicken with roasted potatoes and a mushroom sauce, and his lower belly growls in hunger. It smells amazing.

The fragrance of food rushes out of the house as the door is opened, and in comes David, the minister and what he assumes to be his wife. He stands straight as a ramrod, his hands closely intertwined in front of him, his heart beating fast; what if the minister does not like him either? He supposes, then, there’s truly no hope left.

“Joyce,” the minister smiles, his prominent, pepper-grey moustache moving whenever he talks. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Joyce inclines her head in respect, smiling tightly. “Likewise. Joseph, Prissy, please, have a seat.”

David gives up his usual seat at the head of the table to the minister, who hums with pleasure, as the food is placed onto the table. Instantly, Louis can’t find it in himself to like the alpha. The scent that oozes out of his pores is sharp like a butcher’s knife, and overpowers those around him. He’s obviously trying to impose his authority by scenting the room, and he’s deeply troubled by the sheer audacity of the act. Gulping soundlessly, he sits down on the chair furthest away from the alpha, and as he meets his Prissy’s eyes, he’s surprised to find only kindness reflected back. How come such a beautiful, gentle omega ends up with someone like the minister? Her dark hair frames her round face; her lips are plump and the colour of peaches, and her eyes are light brown and twinkle underneath the glow of the lamps.

She’s a stark contrast to the much, much older alpha, with his white hair and dark eyes and strict curl of his lips. He wants to fidget in discomfort as the alpha’s eyes settle on him every once in a while, although he’s in a conversation with David.

The food is good and provides for a great distraction; but he can’t stay out of Joseph’s inquiries until the end of the night, not when the alpha has come down to talk to him. He braces himself as the conversations quiet down, and the minister’s eyes are focusing on him, unwavering, curious, and dark… oh so dark.

“Louis, isn’t it?” the minister wonders, bringing a glass of water to his lips. Louis nods, chewing slowly around a mouthful of peas. _Leave me alone._ “I pray you’ve settled well here in Avonlea?”

“Uh,” he flounders for a second, looking at Joyce for support. She nods encouragely. “Yes,” he answers, his fingers tightening around his fork. “Green Gables is perfect.”

At least he isn’t completely fibbing; though Avonlea’s folks haven’t been as welcoming as he would have liked them to be, he’s found a real home and family here at Green Gables. The minister had been there at the picnic; he’s seen how hostile people had been towards him. He can remember the muttered words that still reached his ears for lack of discretion, and he’s sure the alpha has seen him run off into the depth of the woods, feeling betrayed, hurt, scorned, _rejected._ He’s about to stuff his mouth with potatoes, when Joseph speaks up again.

“I hope you find school suited to your taste,” the minister smiles tightly, eyeing him until his austere eyes end up staring particularly hard at his elbows, which are resting on the table. He flushes and quickly puts them off the napcloth, mentally berating himself for forgetting basic table manners and making a social faux pas _in front of the minister. Well fucking done, Louis,_ his inner voice snorts, and he mentally punches it in the face.

“I’ve stopped going,” he admits, cutting a piece of potato in half and putting it in his mouth. He can feel the weight of the alpha’s disapproving stare.

“May I know why?”

 _No, you may not,_ is what he wants to answer. But he doesn’t want to embarrass Joyce and David in front of an important member of Avonlea; so he shrugs slightly, trying to come up with an adequate answer.

“It doesn’t… interest me,” he gulps, putting down his fork and knife, able to tell that the conversation will take a turn that will sour the night drastically. And indeed, the minister’s eyelids twitch in annoyance.

“Interesting…” Joseph leans forward. “So you remain there at Green Gables? What do you do?”

 _What do you care?_ he wants to snap, though instead he plasters a grin on his face, straightens up his back, and acts like an omega is supposed to.

“I help Joyce in the kitchen, and sometimes harvest the land with David, take care of the chickens and collect the eggs,” he tells the minister, keeping the fact that he also studies far, far away from the table; he’s half-sure the minister would find a way to send him back to the asylum under the impression that he’s in need for some severe behavioral straightening. 

The minister hums. “Why did you stop going?”

He hesitates, his heart rabbiting away in his chest. Should he say it? Should he risk it? He feels himself sweat from nervousness, and the books upstairs are calling out to him, warning him against making a mistake that might cost him too much.

“As I said,” he gulps. “I prefer helping Joyce and David.”

Joseph spends too long looking at him, and it makes him uneasy. How he wishes the alpha would just go! He is completely caught off guard when the alpha throws his head back in a laugh. “I reckon omegas don’t need to go to school, anyway. An education isn’t something an omega should focus on. If you’d rather stay here, I think you can learn one or two things from Joyce,” he smiles at her, though Joyce doesn’t reciprocate it. Louis feels a sick sense of satisfaction as he sees Joyce ignoring the obnoxious alpha, which soothes out the anger that bubbles within him like molten lava. It’s no surprise the minister thinks so lowly of omegas; but it remains twisted and sickening and disgusts him to the core.

“Moreover,” the alpha continues, taking his wife’s hand in his own. “You’re of age to marry.”

It’s as if cold water has been thrown over his body. He freezes and snaps his gaze down at his half-empty plate, his saliva turning sour in his mouth. The air has gone tense, speaking louder than words. The topic takes him by the throat and squeezes, hard, until he can’t breathe. He tries to keep his composure, to not show how much he is freaking out; but one more word and he might crack. He chances a glance at Joyce, finding her looking at the minister in disbelief. He glances down when he feels something on his hand, finding David’s fingers wrapped around his, offering a much needed source of support.

Nothing is said afterwards, and they finish eating in silence; but he can’t bring himself to swallow anything, and decides to push around the pieces of chicken and the bits of potatoes. He knows Joyce is dying to reprimand him for playing with his food, but thankfully she remains silent. Even Prissy looks uncomfortable, and he feels bad for her. He’d rather be found dead in a ditch than in a house married to some close-minded alpha. As he gazes out of the window, he notices the night full of stars — and how stunning a sight it is! It offers an incredible contrast to the ugliness that lurks in the dark crevices of the room. He yearns to go out and feels the chill breeze against his flushed skin, and be away from that pathetic excuse of an alpha.

It’s the drop that breaks the camel’s back when Joseph speaks up again.

“I have a nephew,” he says around a mouthful of food, sauce sticking to his mustache. “He’s been expressing his desire to marry for several months,” he turns to Joyce. “If you agree, I could arrange a meeting between him and Louis.”

He stares, dumbfounded, at the minister, appalled by how Joseph is talking about him to Joyce, as if he weren’t there, as if his opinion mattered as much as a dog’s bark. The strength of his anger overwhelms him; _I hate you!_ he wants to shout. He wants to stand up and throws out in the air exactly what it is that he thinks of the minister and his nephew. He doesn’t want to fucking marry and it’s abhorring that someone is considering forcing him to. 

_I can’t breathe,_ he panics and glances to the side as tears rush to his eyes. He needs to get out of here as soon as possible. He needs the comfort of his books and the meadows, both of which represent his freedom; a freedom he doesn’t want to lose.

“Joyce,” he says, voice low, eyes down. “May I be excused? I’m tired; I’d like to go to bed already.”

Joyce nods, wiping her mouth clean. “Of course,” she frowns, worried. “Do you need anything?”

He hastily stands up, shaking his head. “No, no, thank you. Have a good night!”

He’s calm as he goes to the stair, not waiting for an answer from Joseph or her wife, or anyone really; and when he knows he’s out of sight, he begins to run, frantic, body colliding with his door, throwing it open; but he’s careful as he closes it, fearing to alarm somebody downstairs. His room calms him down slightly, but it’s only when he’s cradling one of the books Harry gave him that the tears stop to flow. He feels misunderstood and trapped; he needs to get out, unfold his wings before they grow numb and become useless. He counts in his head and mentally does arithmetics — and it helps slightly.

He needs to get out of here.

Cherry blossoms fly through the door and to the floor of his bedroom. He watches them and wishes he could be a tiny blossom that the wind would carry across the ocean and away from evils; but he’s not. He’s an omega; ordeals are thrown his way and all he can do is deal with them. 

He needs to get out of here. He glances down at the books, touching their velvety covers.

And he knows where he needs to go.

He hastily puts them in a basket, covers it with a cloth, goes to the window. He stops when doubt begins to creep in — he used to sneak out in the dead of the night, back in the asylum; but not to go out. Rather, it was to go to the basement where it was quiet and he could read. Peace could be found only where darkness thrived; but here in Green Gables, it’s not the case. He doesn’t want Green Gables to become all gloom; he wants it to shine always. Tonight it has sunk in a jug of black paint and no sunshine can filter through the thick coat — so he needs to get away.

The window isn’t too far high, and he can use the cherry-tree to support his weight for several seconds until he’s ready to jump. He hopes he won’t break his ankle while doing so; but his warm bed isn’t as inviting as it used to be, not when there’s the minister downstairs, polluting the pure air with his nasty words. 

The basket is heavy on his forearm, and his heart is ready to jump out of his mouth. _You can do this, Louis,_ he closes his eyes as he sits on the windowsill, having to hunch over himself from how low the sash is. _You can do it, just believe in yourself._

He puts one foot on where the boughs meet in the middle of the trunk, glad that the tree has lost some of its blooms as spring slowly flies by, progressively leaving the place for summer. He takes several deep breaths and heaves his body out of the room, gripping the thickest tree branch and nearly yelping as he almost falls. He doesn’t, thankfully, and he manoeuvres himself until he is low enough to jump without hurting himself.

The dry soil underneath his boots is something he is glad for, and he crouches down to regain his wits, chest still rising out of sync from the fear he has felt moments ago. _You’re not dead!_ his inner voice cheers, and a slow smile spreads over his face. Behind him, the house glows orange, a spot of colour against the dark landscape; and before him is the grass and the hills, and the woods and the brook. He belongs to both; his heart is split between Green Gables and the wild world, but tonight it’s the latter that wins him over.

He glances one last time over his shoulder. He can hear hushed voices and the clicking of forks against plates. In front of him, crickets and hoots and boughs slapping against one another call out to him.

He climbs the fence and doesn’t look back.

  
  


-

  
  


The woods is a terrifying sight to behold when the moon is the only source of light. The boughs of the trees cast shadows over the detritus, making him think of skeleton hands ready to grab him and drag his soul down the soil. Clumps of bushes ruffle, making him snap his head at all sides, expecting for a wolf or a bear or a monster to emerge from the gloom, ready to make a meal out of him. He struggles making sense of his surroundings, and the trails snaking through the undergrowth are barely visible; he can’t use them to find his way. He begins to regret his decision; what if he gets lost? 

He is terrified, undoubtedly; odd noises surround him, creating an infernal cacophony. The tree trunks creak and there’s the flutter of wings from creatures he can’t see. Rotting leaves crunch underneath his boots, too loud in the night. He crosses his arms over his chest and shivers as the cold breeze slips under his clothes — he should have taken a coat with him. He sighs at his own carelessness and tries to take the right path, using his memory from when Harry had taken him back to Green Gables. 

He lets out a frightened cry as he feels dewy leaves slide across the back of his neck like wet tongues; and he spins on himself, rubbing furiously at his cold skin, glaring at the low bough that has sired his fright. When he looks up, the stars are seen in glimpses through a lattice of leaves, and they pull a soft smile from him. He figures that, if he ends up never finding his way out of the woods, he’ll just lay down where he can clearly see the dark sky and the stars; and he’ll fall asleep to the dreams they foster in his mind.

He stumbles into a clearing, gasping in relief when he recognizes it. Harry had been talking his ears off about the plants and the flowers; and he had absolutely loved it. For once he hadn’t been the one to fill up the silence and instead he was able to enjoy someone else’s chatter — talking to oneself gets dreadfully boring overtime. He doesn’t like how nice Harry is, but then he figures not every alpha is bad. Liam is alright, and Harry surprises him everytime he sees him.

That does not mean he has harbored any kind of feeling besides cordial acceptance; if he has to be around the alpha to study, then so be it. He caresses a spruce tree that Harry has told him he loved because there’s a carving on the side that his late sister had left — and indeed, as he rounds the trunk, he comes across a L (for Lory) encircled by a heart. He allows himself to look at it for several seconds, before he’s taking off again.

The walk has calmed him down considerably even though his eyes are still puffy from the tears, and he’s sure his skin is flushed from exhaustion, but other than that he feels much better. At least he can _breathe._ He ducks underneath a thick cobweb (and tries his hardest not to think of last time when Harry had put his hands on his waist to pull him out of the way seconds before walking face first into the sticky mess) and turns right, now able to remember clearly where he’s supposed to go. It doesn’t take long for a light, other than the moonlight, to shine through the tree breaks, and as he steps out of the woods and into a meadow, he sees Harry’s house.

He hesitates before coming any closer. The light shines through the opened windows, and he can see through the light curtains a figure moving. Maybe he should have thought twice before coming? What if Harry is busy? He glances down at the basket. He could admit he had finished them all and wanted to drop them by. _Right,_ his inner voice snickers. _You had to drop them in the middle of the night, hm?_

He huffs and straightens up, and when he thinks of going back to Green Gables, he shivers, uneasy. He doesn’t want to be there for the night. Maybe he should have gone to Zayn’s? But he yearns for the soft smell of Harry’s bedroom; it’s heady how sweet Harry’s scent is combined to the perfume of old books. It’s the longing that urges him forward, his feet taking him to the door. To calm himself down he mutters one of his favourite quotes from _The Monk,_ finding it oddly befitting to his situation;

 _“He gazes upon the tumbling waterfall with a vacant eye,”_ he begins, his hands turning clammy. _“He views without emotion the glory of the setting Sun. Slowly He returns to his Cell at Evening, for no one there is anxious for his arrival; He has no comfort in his solitary unsavoury meal: He throws himself upon his couch of Moss despondent and dissatisfied, and wakes only to pass a day as joyless, as monotonous as the former.”_

He raises his hand, ready to knock. He gulps. _“After consuming the day in study, if you knew my pleasure at meeting my Brethren in the Evening! After passing many a long hour in solitude, if I could express to you the joy which I feel at once more beholding a fellow-Creature!”_

He knocks, once, twice; his knuckles hurt from the action. He thinks about the minister, about the world that has scorned him from his birth. He smiles sadly. _“I grieve sincerely that I am obliged to conceal from you my happiness,”_ he mutters, heart skipping a beat as the doorknob is pulled down and the door thrown open, revealing the surprised face of Harry Styles. 

He should stop talking; he should gather his wits and greet Harry in a normal manner. But instead, his mouth keeps running; _“Your mind is enslaved by the prejudices of Education; And Superstition might make you shudder at the idea of that which experience has taught me to prize and value,”_ he needs to stop — oh god he has to stop! But he can’t bring himself to, not even when Harry’s face turns worried, his eyes glowing with confusion. Tears gather in his blue irises. _“At present,”_ he sobs. _“You are unfit to be trusted with a secret of such importance: But the strength of your judgement; and the curiosity which I rejoice to see sparkling in your eyes, makes me hope that you will one day deserve any confidence.”_

It’s silent for a while. Then, slowly, Harry lets out a startled “what?”

His throat clogs up until he’s near to choking; and promptly, he bursts into tears.


	2. Chapter 2

The fire crackles, and he stares into its depth, steam rising from the steaming hot soup Harry has put in front of him, blurring his vision. He rubs his puffy eyes and trails his fingers over his flushed skin — flushed from when Harry had wrapped his arms around his body, enveloping him completely, swaying them gently until his sobs had turned into whimpers and his tears had stopped falling. He doesn’t know what it means that the alpha has been able to comfort him, but he’s decided, the moment he was guided inside and near the fireplace, that he won’t think too much into it.

He tightens the blanket that Harry had insisted on putting around him, making the mistake to inhale and get a whiff of the alpha’s scent. _He smells nice,_ he can’t help thinking, but he’s convinced it doesn’t mean anything. He likes to enjoy nice, handsome things; and Harry happens to be both, so he can’t be blamed for thinking a bit too much about the alpha.

He avoids meeting said alpha’s eyes, mostly because he’s still embarrassed from his outburst. He thought he had been fine, but it was proven false when his emotions came back to him full force and overwhelmed him to the point he began spewing quotes from _The Monk_ and crying. He sniffs and finally finds it in himself to pick up the spoon and eat the soup, which he believes to be made of carrots and other vegetables he can’t quite make out.

Harry sits down across from him, careful eyes trained on him as if he were a frightened animal ready to take off, which… he might be. He isn’t sure of why his instinct pushed him to come to Harry of all people, but it did, and it scares him.

“Are you feeling better?” Harry asks, crossing his elbows over the table, seemingly eager to know the answer. He only shrugs, unable to put his feelings into words. He tries not to feel too much as Harry’s face falls.

“What happened?” 

He takes a deep breath and meets Harry’s eyes, fingers shaking.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he admits, filling his mouth with creamy soup. If he expects the alpha to look disappointed, he’s pleasantly surprised when, instead, Harry hums, understanding, and gestures at the basket. Louis is grateful and his heart warms up. He sits up and removes the cloth, taking out of the basket the books.

“I’ve finished them,” he proclaims with a proud smile, pushing the pile towards Harry, who raises an impressed eyebrow.

“That’s incredible, Louis,” the alpha tells him sincerely. “You’re fast.”

“They were amazing,” he tells Harry, softening. “They provide so much scope for the imagination. It was incredible learning about the United States, or arithmetics — who would have thought that numbers would be so amazing? I couldn’t put down the book! Thank you so much for letting me borrow them.”

He flushes as he sees the way Harry looks at him; soft and fond all at once, somewhat admirative. He’s so not used to being looked at in such a way that he focuses all of his attention to the bowl, eating it slowly, the sound of him swallowing down the only thing disturbing the silence. It isn’t awkward at all; instead, Harry stands up and goes to prepare tea, and Louis watches the way his back muscles move underneath his shirt; and the sight shouldn’t be entertaining, but he can’t look away. His big hands take the hot kettle and pour steaming water into two cups, alongside tea bags and a dash of milk. He blinks when Harry reaches for the jug of sugar.

“Wait!” he shouts, frowning in disbelief. “You put _sugar_ in your _tea?”_

“Yes, I do,” Harry frowns. “You don’t? I’m sorry, I should have asked!”

“I’m—” Louis stops and decides to pout, glaring at the fire. “I’ve just lost all of my esteem for you.”

“Because I put sugar in my tea?” Harry asks, amused, putting the cups down and pushing one towards him. He eyes it suspiciously. 

“Yes,” he grits out, bending down to smell the brownish liquid, and relaxing when it smells like tea. Sugar in tea… what on earth? “It’s gross,” he adds.

Harry’s smile widens. “Tea without sugar is gross. Tastes like sewage water.”

Louis groans and rolls his eyes — he knew Harry Styles couldn’t be trusted!

“You just broke my heart,” he tells the alpha, taking a tentative sip of the tea, and drinking some more when it doesn’t taste weird. He watches as Harry flushes slightly, glancing down at his own cup, big hands cradling the tiny thing delicately.

“I didn't know I had it in the first place,” Harry whispers, soft, gentle, careful; and Louis’ heart threatens to give out. Harry has no right to look so soft or sound so vulnerable — he breaks every carefully outlined idea he has of alphas — they’re supposed to be big, mean, cocky and annoying. But Harry is a walking paradox; he is soft and sometimes cocky; big but gentle; attractive yet modest. He’s annoying yet in an endearing way.

Harry has started punching the walls he’s built around himself, and they shake after each blow, and someday they will shatter into thousands of pieces.

The night progresses outside, but time seems to have stopped working within the house. While Harry takes care of the dishes, he goes to the alpha’s bedroom upstairs (after asking whether he could, of course). The blanket trails after him like a dress, and he likes to imagine himself in one; with puff sleeves and flowers embroidered on the seams, the air ruffling his hair, the moonlight dancing over his skin. He smiles slightly at the picture it paints in his head. He pushes the bedroom’s door open, instantly assaulted by the fragrance of burnt rosewood and vanilla, with an undertone of bitterness that, even after getting accustomed to it, still makes his mouth water.

He lets the blanket drop to the floor and goes to the cupboards; there he takes several random books and he looks at them. Books don’t talk or judge; they won’t oblige him to do something he doesn’t want to; they’re here to serve him, not the other way round. It’s maybe for these reasons that he calms down even more. He means to take one of the textbooks to read, but in the end he’s drawn to _Wuthering Heights._

The hard ground scratches as his skin and without a second thought, he crawls into Harry’s bed. He hears the alpha pattering about downstairs, despite not having a lot to do; and he thinks, with a smile on his face, that the alpha is giving him some space. He snuggles into the mattress, letting his head thump against the fluffy pillow as he basks in the alpha’s scent — it lullabies him alongside the chirping of the crickets as he begins his favourite book. 

His eyes begin to droop as Catherine talks of her hope to transcend into a glorious world — and how he wishes he could, too! 

_“I'm wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there: not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart: but really with it, and in it.”_

As gloom taints his consciousness, so does the quote with his dreams; and the book falls from his fingers, over the sheets; and far away the moon shines over him.

  
  


-

  
  


The first thing he registers is that it’s too hot. The sun isn’t shining in his face, and as he flutters his eyes open, he notices the curtains have been drawn over the sash. He’s sweating through his clothes, his fringe is stuck to his forehead and he hums as he moves his toes and tries to roll over.

Except he can’t. A weight prevents him from doing so, and he glances down and freezes as he spots an arm thrown over his waist, pinning him down to the mattress. Before he can panic, he’s overwhelmed by Harry’s scent; it fills his nostrils and goes to his brain, makes his toes curl and his lips part, breathless moans leaving his lips. He snaps them closed and _then_ begins to panic, trying to get up but Harry’s arm is strong around him, like a snake around a throat. He hears a groan muttered against the back of his neck, hot breath caressing the skin there. He flushes, his hand coming down over Harry’s forearm. 

When he feels slick slide down the inside of his thigh, he blanches and uses his entire strength to lift Harry’s dead-weight, stumbling out of bed and rushing out of the room. He tries to find his way to the bathroom, hastily opening several doors until he finds it. It bangs shut as he throws his weight against it, and he slides down the hard surface and nearly rips his hair out. 

“No, no no no no,” he mutters, pushing his face in his arms. “This can’t be happening right now,” he whispers, hysteric. He stands up and looks at himself in the mirror, finding his face flushed and eyes wide open, the blue almost gone. He can’t be going into heat right now; he won’t allow it. Tears begin to gush out of his eyes and he splashes cold water onto his feverish skin, breathing in and out. He knows it’s Harry who triggered it, and he wonders what the alpha is going to think once he finds out an omega has slicked up by just smelling his scent.

 _He’s going to be disgusted by you._ He shakes his head to knock that voice out of his head and squeezes his thighs to control the flow of slick. He’s pretty sure he’s about to leak right through his trousers, and how embarrassing would that be?

A knock on the door startles him, and he whines loudly as Harry’s voice filters through the wood.

“Lou?” the alpha says, sleepy-soft and deep after hours of not being used; and it causes for another gush of slick to pour out of his holes, and he whimpers in absolute _agony._ It’s hard to be so close to an alpha that smells like heaven, and not being able to throw himself at him. _No, wait,_ he presses his fingers against his throbbing temples. _You don’t want Harry that way — gather yourself._ He squeezes his eyes closed, takes a deep breath, then goes to the door.

“Can you just... “ he begins, voice high and throaty, breathless and soft. Exactly the way he doesn't want it to be. “Can you leave me for a second, please?”

He presses his sweaty forehead against the cool door, palms pressed on either side of his head. 

The alpha sounds awake now, and worried. This can’t be good. “Are you sure? Louis, if something’s wrong, I’m here.”

 _No, go away!_ He clears his throat. “No, it’s alright, I need a moment for myself.”

A beat passes. “Alright,” Harry gives in, and Louis hears heavy steps fade into the distance as Harry walks away from the door. His senses have sharpened, so he can tell when Harry isn’t in the corridor anymore. _Deep breath, Louis._ He presses the doorknob and pushes the door open, sliding his flushed and sweaty body through the gap and wondering what on earth he’s supposed to do now. He can feel, hear, smell Harry downstairs, the alpha's presence overwhelming, filling up every nook and cranny of his existence; and he rushes to the bedroom. He doesn’t know what overtakes him but he starts to go through Harry’s closet, having to hold himself against the firm wood as the alpha’s scent washes over him like rain water. 

He finds a scarf that he wraps around his neck, and decides to pick a coat that smells particularly strongly of Harry; that way, his sharpening scent is concealed by Harry’s. He can’t believe he has to do something like that, but he takes it upon himself and walks out of the room, even though he wants nothing more than to throw his body on the bed and pleasure himself. Going down the stairs is a challenge, but he makes it to the bottom without a scratch.

He finds Harry making sandwiches and pouring tea, but the alpha stops short when his eyes fall on the omega. The air quickly becomes tense, and he can’t find it in himself to breathe properly when Harry’s eyes darken and his jaw clenches.

“Not a word about it,” he pleads, shakily making his way closer. “Please.”

He didn’t even have to say that; the alpha has been rendered speechless, eyes staring at the way his clothes engulf Louis’ body. His scent is camouflaging Louis’ for the time being, but even then it’s obvious what’s happening to Louis’ body. The omega makes grabby hands for the cup, which Harry passes over, still stunned to silence.

Louis flushes as he sips the hot liquid. He doesn't need to drink hot when he's already burning up, but he'll never refuse a cup of tea. Outside, the sun has barely broken out from the horizon line; it’s still early enough that he might make it back to Green Gables before Joyce and David are awake.

“I have to go,” he says out of the blue, standing up and about to rush to the door. But Harry’s hand closing around his wrist holds him back and sends sparks throughout his body. He pulls it free from the grip and cradles it to his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken, afraid the alpha can hear it. 

“Sorry,” Harry mutters, taking a step back. “Just… Please let me walk you.”

Louis shakes his head, feet itching to take him out of the house, where the air is fresh and not tainted by Harry's scent. “You don’t have to.”

He watches as Harry pushes his big feet into his boots. “But I want to.”

He holds himself back from saying, _but I don’t,_ because that would be a lie, though a necessary one. He remains silent as Harry gathers the egg sandwiches, puts on his corduroy hat and opens the door for him.

“After you,” Harry bows, a gentle grin on his face that Louis tries to reciprocate, but can’t; he’s busy stomping all over the butterflies wreaking havoc in his lower belly. _Pull yourself together, Louis._ He steps outside and closes his eyes as the breeze caresses his face, and he’s about to walk down the line when he’s stopped.

“Louis, wait,” Harry hastily gets out, passing over the sandwiches and rushing inside the house. As he waits for the alpha, he takes a huge bite out of the food, humming happily. He hasn’t realized how hungry he is, but now that he has begun he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop. With puffed cheeks he takes in the way the blush of the sunset glows over the meadows, and how the daisies wave to the wind. Spruce trees litter the faraway mountains whose tops are lost in the clouds, a bit like his thoughts which have gone mushed. 

“Here,” he suddenly hears, blinking out of his daydream and glancing back at Harry, who is brandishing his basket. He goes to grab it but Harry tuts. “I’m carrying it.”

He frowns. “I can carry it just fine.”

Harry starts to walk, urging him to follow. “I know, but I want to carry it. Please, humour me.”

With an annoyed sigh he catches up to the alpha, munching on the sandwich and passing over the second one, which Harry takes, his fingers brushing Louis’ skin; and from that fleeting touch only, his entire body succumbs to a blazing fire. _Fuck!_ He hunches on himself and stuffs even more bread into his mouth, just so he won’t have to talk.

They enter the woods, able to follow the paths now that they are in broad daylight. Insects chirp all around them, and squirrels dart back into tree trunks. It’s peaceful, and offers such a contrast to the storm raging on within him. His ass is wet from his slick, and his cock has fattened up slightly; and because of that he is grateful for the coat, for it is long enough to conceal that particular misfortune. He devours the rest of his sandwich, chewing aggressively and focusing on the sun-dappled canopy.

He blinks in astonishment as Harry’s hand appears in front of his eyes, Harry’s sandwich enticing him.

“Take it,” Harry breathes out, winking at him. He usually would have refused, but his stomach keeps growling and with a blush, he accepts the food and instantly takes a bite out of it. He ignores Harry’s fond eyes on him, choosing to focus on the wild berry bushes and pine needles; anything, really, that will make him forget the way those eyes on him make him feel.

Dead leaves cover the ground, crunching underneath his boots as they step out of the chaos of trees. The brook’s water sloshes against the rocks, and wordlessly he goes to it, cups a bit of cold water, and splashes it against his flaming skin. He feels Harry crouch down next to him, and there’s the sound of water disturbed by fingers, then Louis feels drops of water onto his face. He looks at Harry, and spots the alpha with a teasing grin, wet fingers still in the water. _Did he just splash me?_ He fights to keep his smile at bay, and when Harry looks down at the clear water, he decides to retaliate; he curves one hand in the brook, and throws it up, sending a cup of water straight into the alpha’s face.

 _“You—_ ” Harry splutters, laughing, narrowing his eyes. “You better run.”

And that’s exactly what he does; the omega stands up and is about to take off towards Green Gables, when he feels an arm circles his waist, his feet leave the ground. He shrieks as Harry pretends to throw his body in the brook, though he never lets go. Louis’ back is to Harry’s chest, and they’re laughing so much that they end up breathless. They can’t calm down; their chest spasm under the euphoria that courses between them, and Harry sits down in the grass, and pulls Louis between his legs, against his chest.

Louis is still shaking, but he progressively calms down as he watches the sun slowly rise. He feels Harry’s chest go up and down, taking him into the motion, and he never thought he’d be so comfortable in an alpha’s arms; but right now, as the grass welcomes their embrace, and the apple orchard sweetens the air they breathe, he finds a dew of solace. He’s still leaking a bit of slick, and he’s flushed from it; but Harry’s arms are tight around him, sure and real; he doesn’t even say anything as Harry’s nose digs into his neck, breathing his scent in.

They’d be cast out from Avonlea if anyone found them in such an unconventional position. An alpha and omega are not to spend private time together until marriage, but Harry doesn’t seem to care, and truthfully, neither does he. He lets himself be cuddled a while longer, until he knows the roosters are about to let out in the air their morning call.

“I must go, Harry,” he mumbles, yelping as he’s lifted into the air as if he were as heavy as a feather, then delicately put down. Harry’s hands linger on his hips, and a kiss is dropped to his temple— and _what?_ He blushes and hides it in the collar of Harry’s coat, and only finds it in himself to begin moving when Harry does, basket hanging at the tip of his long fingers. 

He can’t believe he’s let an alpha so close to him, so close in fact so as to trigger a heat. He also can’t believe he’s letting an alpha carry his basket, or that he let himself be cuddled through the sunrise by said alpha.

But that alpha isn’t anyone. It’s Harry.

Harry who asked for his forgiveness by spewing Shakespeare; Harry who has taken care of him when he fell sick; Harry who has humoured him in his desire to study. _Harry Harry Harry._ A mantra he’s starting to get used to. 

They reach Green Gables as the sky turns pink, and Harry pushes the fence open, letting him walk first. He’s not surprised when he spots Liam tending to Belle, and when the French alpha sees him, he smiles.

“Bonjour, Louis!” Liam waves, a toothpick hanging from his lips. Belle snorts and knocks her head against the alpha’s belly, disappointed that he has stopped stroking her.

“Hi,” he smiles back, considering coming closer to pet Belle but then remembering his current state; so he stays put, glad that Harry’s scent, which comes both from Harry himself and the coat, is concealing his heat, and also glad that the air has taken the bitter undertone of hay. Liam’s eyes flitter to Harry, curious, wondering. _Here we go,_ Louis thinks exasperatedly. 

Harry steps forward and shakes Liam’s outstretched hand. “Harry Styles.”

“Liam Payne,” Liam nods then tries to come closer to Louis; but something happens which results in them freezing, stunned.

Harry growls.

It’s low, menacing, sending warnings; it’s the growl of a protective alpha.

Louis feels his slick slide further down his thigh, sticky and sweet. He begins to breath more harshly through his nose.

“Liam,” he manages to croak out, fingers shaking by his sides. “I’ll see you later!”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, or try to explain what’s going on to Liam; he rushes to the house, waiting for Harry on the porch, torn between hitting the alpha’s chest or nuzzling into it. He isn’t Harry’s omega; there’s no reason for him to growl like that. He frets and glares at Harry as he walks to him; but he softens when he sees how surprised and troubled the alpha is, startled by his own behaviour.

“I— I didn’t—” he stutters, sighing and rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he settles on, soft and genuine. His shoulders have drooped, an odd sight for someone who is usually confident. 

“It’s alright,” he reassures the alpha, hesitantly reaching out to grab Harry’s available hand. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, or what has taken over him… but Harry has made him soft, has awakened a side of him he thought non-existent, or if existing, then doomed to sleep forever.

Harry doesn’t answer, but he passes over the basket, and Louis is surprised when it turns out to be heavier than expected. No wonder Harry has wanted to carry it for him. The sun casts a halo of light as it shines behind Harry, and he has to look away lest he’d end up blinded. He’s too hot in the coat, which he begins to remove but Harry raises a hand.

“Please,” he says, tone begging. “Please, keep it.”

And who is he to refuse? The coat is nice and warm, and it smells like Harry. He’s not going to give it up. So he nods shyly and opens the door with the key he was given several weeks ago, and though he wants to turn around and do… and do _something,_ he keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the dining table. As the door clicks shut, though, even through the thick wood he can feel Harry’s eyes on his every move. 

He feels feverish the moment he steps away from Harry. A tremor goes through his legs up to his brain until he becomes dizzy.

He rushes to his room. Slick has gone down to his calf, need has turned his knees to mush, and the moment he’s through the door he collapses onto the bed. The basket drops to the floor, and he wants to look into it with all his might and main; but he finds that he _can’t._ No matter what, no matter how much he fights it, he succumbs to his heat. His body heats up, the pleasure and pain coursing through his veins making his back curve. He bites on the collar of the coat, buries his nose into the piece of fabric, and in his head all he can think about is _Harry_ and _alpha_ and _knot._

He manages to strip naked, but with difficulty he slips the coat on again; he can’t get enough of it. Tears rush down his cheeks; how empty he feels! He drools onto his pillow and all over Harry’s coat; marks his territory, his brain growling _mine mine mine mine._ He’s lost to delirium, blind with pleasure, deaf with pain.

Purplish pink turns into greyish blue; and all he sees is red.

  
  


-

  
  


Days have been pushed to the back of his mind as he blinks his eyes open, and for the first time in a while (or so he thinks it’s been a while), he can hear the chirping of the birds and see the sunshine. He groans in both pleasure and pain as his sore muscles awaken.

He’s lying in a mess of cum, sweat, and he blinks down in astonishment as he sees that Harry’s coat is still wrapped around his body, though it is dirty. He flushes in embarrassment and slowly peels the fabric off his skin, heart speeding up as he smells the combination that Harry’s scent and his own create.

He gets dressed in one of his nightgowns and stands in front of the mirror; and what he sees isn’t all that surprising. He’s dirty with sweat and dried body fluids; his eyes are red and puffy, his lips bleeding from having been bitten raw, pleasure etched into the self-inflicted bruises littering his body. He can’t believe he’s just gone through a heat — how did Joyce deal with it? And _oh God,_ what about David? He starts to panic when there’s a knock on the door, and in comes Joyce, a cloth wrapped around her face, covering her nose. She blinks as she sees him standing up, lucid, and a sigh of relief leaves her lips.

“Welcome back, darling,” she says, putting down a tray of breakfast. She takes one look at him, and he guesses from the way the cloth shifts, that she scrunches up her nose. “I’ll pour you a bath. In the meantime, eat.”

She leaves and he goes to the tray, finding the egg and bread cut in pieces. She must have thought him still in heat, and she’s been feeding him. He drops his face in his hands, embarrassed in a way he doesn’t think can be rivaled. He owes her a mountain of apologies.

He hears her call out for him to come, which he does most eagerly; at the sight of the steaming hot bath, he almost cries in joy.

“Freshen up,” she tells him, then she leaves him alone.

He remains in the water until it turns cold, and he’s thorough as he washes days of filth away. When he steps out of the tub, he smells strongly of roses, and his skin is red from being scrubbed. He tiptoes to his room, and quickly dresses up, rubbing his temples where a headache lingers. Outside the window, the meadows are green and the sun has gone hotter.

Summer has come, and spring has gone; he can feel the change in the way he instantly begins to sweat.

He feels changed, somehow; different, but he can't tell _how._ It bugs him, makes his skin itch uncomfortably, but no matter how hard in his brain and conscience he digs, there's no answer to his questions.

He eats quickly until not a single crumb remains; then he spots the basket by the bed, and tentatively reaches for it. As he removes the cloth (his heart jumping because it smells like Harry), he finds more new textbooks, and it must be that his pheromones are still all over the place, because he presses the palm of his hands against his eyelids, and begins to cry.

  
  


-

  
  


Saturday morning is bright, and he bites his lips in apprehension as he raises his hand and knocks on Harry’s door. He hasn’t seen the alpha in two weeks, mostly because he has had to help David and Joyce around, and come up with a heat schedule. He’s seen a doctor who has given him a pill to swallow to lessen the intensity of his heat; but deep down, he knows he’s not going to take them. 

His mind and body miss the alpha; but he knows it’s necessary to put some distance between them. His body has reacted strongly to the alpha’s scent, meaning his omega is seeing Harry as a potential mate and he can’t allow that to just happen. He isn’t looking for a partner; all he wants to do is study, and apply to college.

He knocks on the door and waits with his heart in his throat. He’s dozed himself in perfume to dampen his scent. Just as he is about to knock a second time, the door swings open, and Harry appears in all of his glory.

For a while, they don’t say anything. Harry’s hair is damp, as if he has just finished bathing, and drops of water slide down his neck, and Louis hates how his mouth waters. He looks down at his boots, stares hard at his basket. He’s finished studying the books Harry gave him; he needs new ones. He convinces himself that’s why he came over at all. 

“You don’t smell like yourself,” is how Harry breaks the silence, stepping to the side and letting him enter the house. He blushes and raises an eyebrow at the bold comment, but then decides to shrug.

“Does it matter?” he whispers, going up the stairs without being asked to. Once in the bedroom, he opens the cupboards and begins to put the textbooks back inside, selectioning five new ones. Harry has followed him and stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, expression troubled. 

“Yes, it does,” Harry frowns and creeps closer to him. “I love your scent.”

That makes him freeze, fingers hovering over a geography textbook. Slowly, he turns his head to look at the alpha, only to find him flustered. The way he’s looking at Louis is profound, dark, meaningful; but Louis prefers to drape a veil in front of the obvious, just to put it off a bit longer.

“It doesn’t matter,” he repeats, so low that he’s not sure Harry even hears him. But the alpha huffs, annoyed, but doesn’t say anything. Silence reigns once again, and he goes about reading the titles and picking out what he needs. He’s affected by Harry’s scent, so prominent all around them, stroking his soul tenderly; but he resists the temptation.

“I have to go to school,” Harry announces out of the blue, and he hums, not daring to look back. He is too weak to inflict himself such torture. If he has to ignore the alpha to tame his wild thoughts, then so be it. As long as he has access to the books, he doesn’t need anything else. Being alone has been a constant in his life and he’s not sure he’s ready for it to change.

He's fibbing; he knows he is. He ignores it.

Harry leaves without another word, and Louis’ heart squeezes. His brain and his heart are at war, fighting for different causes; and unfortunately for Harry, he tends to agree with his brain. His heart is for his passions, for the little pleasures in life that he humors; but his brain is practical, realistic, spiced up by his imagination that isn't supposed to come true; the thoughts it generates is for him only, not for the real world. He sighs and puts down the book he’s been reading, standing up, planning on finding Harry downstairs. But before he can proceed with his plans, he notices a little red box at his feet, and he bends down to take it. As he makes his way out of the room and down the stairs, he gently opens it, staring, dumbfounded, at what lies inside.

A key.

A key is nestled in the pillow of velvety fabric. He lets out a trembling gasp as he takes it, caressing the cool metal. He knows Harry left it for him, and carefully he goes to the front door and inserts the key into the keyhole, slowly twisting it.

A click echoes throughout the house. Deadly, menacing. Real.

He tugs on the doorknob and it doesn’t budge. He puts a hand over his mouth and leans his forehead against the hard surface, blushing, knees threatening to give out from underneath him. He’s just closed himself in. He has just locked himself inside of Harry’s house.

And it means only one thing, and he has absolutely no idea of what to make of it. 

Harry is courting him.

  
  


-

  
  


Harry being at school, and him having a key to Harry’s house means that they see each other very rarely. He comes to the house when Harry has gone to school already, and leaves before sunset, before Harry is back. His body is suffering from not seeing the alpha, but it helps that he can smell Harry in the house, in every nook and cranny. Weeks go by and he dives head first into his study, and that’s all he does; he cultivates his knowledge, learns what the alphas are learning, with, in his mind, the goal of a written acceptance test that can give him access to Redmond College.

Though he doesn’t see Harry a lot, the alpha finds ways to get under his skin, to make his heart tremor out of excitement. The alpha leaves gifts all over the house, at least twice a week. First, it had been the key. Then, a cashmere scarf that had made him look forward to winter to wear it. He has received a status of a bunny made out of wood, which he has found adorable, especially when he has looked underneath it to find a big H. He’s been given several shirts that the alpha clearly used to wear a lot, his scent etched in the fabrics. Back at Green Gables, on his shelves, he has got a collection of seashells that Harry had brought back from the beach. He’s overwhelmed by the amount of things the alpha has gotten him, but despite knowing that Wednesday is a day he’ll find something on the dining table, he never fails to be amazed by how thoughtful the alpha is.

Harry has bought a new slate to replace the one he broke when hitting the alpha in the face. Harry has also left him a list with all the lessons they’re studying for the acceptance test, which has made him cry (though he will never admit it). Harry has gone to the city to buy grapes after finding out it’s his favourite fruit. The gifts are all thoughtful, and has brought magic to courting when before he’d consider the act as romantic only in books. He never thought a real alpha able to be so… sweet and generous.

Harry has, once again, proved him wrong.

He still hasn’t thrown out the sunflowers Harry had brought him, despite their petals having dried up and fallen onto the piece of furniture on which they reside. He sleeps with the shirts Harry gave him, uses the bottle of soap that Harry has made (because the alpha loves making soap, and finding out such a thing about the alpha has overwhelmed him with joy). Harry never stops spoiling him, even when he never reciprocates the sentiment.

He’s too caught up in figures and letters, too busy trying to catch up on wasted years. He knows Harry doesn’t expect anything from him, and is happy to be courting him; but he still wants to show his gratitude.

Harry hasn’t given up on him even though he dreams for the impossible. He hasn’t given up on his bratty attitude, his wild imagination, his over-dramatic reactions. He’s come to appreciate the alpha so much that, deep within the abyss of his soul, there’s a voice that wonders whether Harry is the perfect alpha for him. Which he’s always thought didn’t exist; he’s encountered so many alphas that turned out to be walking disappointments that he’s sworn to himself to take as long as he needs to meet the one that makes his heart squeeze, not from disgust, but from _want._ He’s getting there, he thinks. Love is a concept that has been foreign since he was born; he’s lacked motherly, fatherly love, and he has never been loved romantically. He struggles picturing Harry feeling for him in that way; after all, he’s just plain Louis the omega. His scent has been described as plain, he has freckles, thin lips, wide blue eyes, a forehead that he thinks too prominent but thankfully is hidden underneath his fringe; and his hair is akin to a treacherous mixture of soil mixed with blood.

His fingers have grown accustomed to the soft pages of the textbooks, and spots of black-ink dust his skin. It’s the only thing about himself that he considers as an advantage; his need to learn, to understand, his capacity to find beauty even in the tiniest things. It’s no wonder, as he looks around Harry’s house, that he ends up discovering another facet of Harry’s personality. He finds fresh flowers, all the time, scattered into vases throughout the rooms. When he comes early in the morning, he finds bowls of lukewarm milk on the porch, feeding stray cats with starved eyes and thin bodies. It’s those tiny, mundane actions that make Louis dizzy with wonder; is Harry even real? 

The day he decides that he might do something about Harry’s courting, he pushes the house’s door, letting it click shut softly behind him. Fresh red tulips have been put on the kitchen’s counter; their petals don a nice gradient, from dark red to a lighter shade of the colour. They bask in the glow of the early morning sun, the golden beams reaching out for it, almost as if the petals stray a bit too far from the warming rays. He goes to them with a soft grin, and lets his curious fingers caress the blossoms with reverence. They’re soft and make him think of Harry’s nose when it had found shelter in the curve of his neck.

He flushes, down to his toes, and hastily takes several steps back, ready to grab a glass of water and go up to Harry’s bedroom, where he has claimed the desk situated by the window as his own — Harry doesn’t seem to mind it. As he grabs a pitcher of water, the glitter of a little piece of fabric calls out to him, and he grabs it, pinching his lips together to hold the fond back from developing into a full beam. He didn’t expect a gift today, since he received one yesterday, but with fingers whose tips sparkle from eager curiosity, he unties the tiny bow and gently peels off the cotton. He tilts his head as a box of tea stares back at him, and soft chuckle leaves his lips, eyes crinkling from joy.

It’s his favourite brand of tea.

He doesn’t know how Harry found out about it, but it must have taken him a while to find the brand; the asylum only served it, and he’s been fond of it ever since. He rushes to the kettle to whisk himself one, being careful as he nourishes the fire with pieces of lumber. He takes a cup and puts it over the counter, mentaly cursing the alpha for putting them so high he has to put a knee next to the stove to reach them. Then he waits for the water to boil, gazing out of the window in thoughts. 

Summer has come, manifesting its presence in the shape of the unforgiving sun, longer days, and canopies that have fluffed up with vibrant green leaves. Calves and lambs can be seen running through the meadows, while chicks chirp away in farmsteads. Birds are less shy as they soar through the sky, looking for somewhere to build up their nests. He walks to the kettle as it begins to whistle, pulling it off the hook and pouring hot water over the tea bag. He adds a bit of fresh milk, which Harry has had the idea of leaving next to the gift, then stirs everything together until a soft brown liquid entices him.

He brings it along with him upstairs, Harry’s scent growing stronger and stronger with every step he takes closer to the alpha’s bedroom. He slows down as he passes a patch of wall that has a few photographs, having paid attention to them before with sweet melancholy. He can tell Harry used to be the youngest of a large family; but life has its hardships, and a cruel tendency to expose youthful souls to pain and sorrow; and Harry is the last of his siblings, and his parents have gone back to the soil.

He avoids thinking too much about how alike they are.

Although they’ve grown in completely different conditions, they’ve both suffered loss greater than words can explain. He takes a sip of the tea, the hot liquid sliding down his throat, warming up his insides; and without another glance at the pain etched in the wall, he goes to the bedroom.

He takes it upon himself, before leaving, to tidy up his mess.The books he’s studying are piled up in a corner of the desk, and he always takes back some of his notes to learn before sleeping; the rest is stuck to one another by a string of twine. He puts the cup down and sits at the desk. On the chair there is a thick pillow that Harry had thought of putting, to adjust his size to the desk that’s slightly higher to his liking; and he remembers almost weeping at the nice gesture, especially since he hadn’t dared doing anything about his predicament. He swings his feet gently as he takes a pen, uncaps a bottle of ink, grabs a clean sheet and _The Science of Energy._ He goes to the page he’s stopped to, and begins reading.

By the window he’s lullabied by the heat waltzing up from the soil and into the room, as well as the chirping of a cardinal that comes to rest over the window still. He smiles at it, cup to his lips. Its lively plumage matches its enthusiasm as it hops on place and sings it's little heart away.

“How lovely you are,” he tells the bird, putting down the pen, allowing himself a break after four hours of drinking in the words from light and electricity and energy. He doesn’t expect an answer, of course, but there’s something magical about talking to things or beings that he knows won’t ever answer him; there can’t be judgement when there can’t be answers, right? So he leans back into the large chair, pulls a knee to his chest, barefoot digging into the pillow, and lets himself rant to the creature.

“Do you think,” he begins, biting his lip in wonder. “Do you think Harry loves me?”

The bird doesn’t pay him any mind, busy moving its wings around and soaking in the sun. It spurs him on to talk, fingers playing with his now empty cup of tea, tracing the edge.

“If he does,” he says to it, honest. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never thought of myself with a mate; and now that I might have found one, I’m not sure of what to do. Part of me wants to run for the hills, plagued by insecurities… but another part is yearning for his touch, his words, his gentle eyes.”

He admits the last part with a voice so soft that the cardinal’s chirp overtakes it. The words fly out of his mouth and get lost in the vast lands of green grass, carried out by Avonlea’s wind. The bird jumps and takes off towards the sun, leaving Louis blinking after it, apples of the cheeks pink from his own admission. He chuckles and goes back to studying, pain blossoming in the small of his back and fingers stiffening up from exhaustion; but he never stops doing what he likes.

Before night settles in, he finds himself making a trip downstairs. Usually, he goes back to Green Gables as the sun begins its ascend towards the horizon line; but as he catches sight of a basket of vegetables, that Harry probably gathered from the garden backdoors in the morning, he decides that he might as well try and cook something.

Growing up in the asylum has meant having to learn cooking basic meals, and as he spots cucumber, tomatoes, carrots, eggplants and chicken, he grabs a knife, the vegetables, and begins chopping them. It’s odd to be cooking for an alpha. He’s perfectly aware that he’s diving into their courting (which, up until now, has been Harry’s courting; he’s just been on the receiving end of it, is all) as he cooks Harry something. He doesn’t make it too elaborate, or tries to go at great lengths to make it taste like heaven; he sticks to what he knows, to what he’s learnt. A stick of thyme here and there, a dash of salt and pepper when he thinks it necessary. He stuffs the chicken with lemon halves and a bit of thyme, puts it over a tray alongside the chopped vegetables, then smothers the raw flesh with butter mixed up with crushed garlic. He’s got about two hours left before Harry will come home, if he remembers the alpha’s schedule correctly, and he puts the roasting tin in the hot oven.

As he waits for the chicken to cook, he makes another cup of tea, and fetches a book from the bedroom which he reads by the flickering flame of a candle. The sun jumps out of sight at one point, progressing further west. The sky goes from bright blue to yellow, orange, purple and pink, and gradually fades into pitch black. The room is bathing in an alluring fragrance of baked chicken and vegetables. He puts the book down and uses a cloth to take the hot roasting tin out of the oven, putting it over the counter. He looks through the cupboards for a saucepan, finding one in the very back of one. He pulls it out and looks it over to make sure it’s in good condition, which it is, and he goes to the stove.

He busies himself making the gravy, stirring a wooden spoon frequently, eyes on the opened textbook. He’s at a particularly difficult chapter that he hopes won’t be at the acceptance test. He yawns, eyes tired and drooping, though he remains on alert for the gravy, not wanting to burn it.

Once he deems it ready, he takes it off the stove and puts the saucepan by the roasting tin. He takes a step back and looks at his work. He remembers the matron back at the asylum saying he’s the epitome of a useless omega. The comment has hurt his feelings greatly, but as he takes in the golden, crispy layer covering the chicken and the thick sauce, he thinks, _not so useless._ He smiles, proud, and his fingers close around the book once again.

When the doorknob rattles, and Harry steps in the house, the chicken is still steaming. He’s sitting at the dining table, which he has decorated with two plates and two glasses, and, since he felt daring enough, a little bouquet of wild daisies whose stems are into a tall glass full of water. He went out to gather the prettiest one, enjoying the walk and the fresh air while doing so. He’s still flushed from the sun kissing his cheeks.

His fingers dig into the book, his heart immediately speeding up. He’s lighted up several candles and lamps to illuminate the room, and he subtly glances at them, making sure one of them hasn't gone out and that he hasn’t put one too close to the curtains lest they would light up in fire. He takes a deep breath and meets Harry’s startles eyes.

The alpha blinks, closing the door slowly, dropping his heavy bag on the floor and walking tentatively further into the room. Then, slowly, he grins. “I thought someone had broken inside.”

The tension is palpable in the air, crackling between them as they gaze at each other. Louis’ fingers shake slightly, the first dews of insecurity finally sliding down his consciousness, making him hyper-aware of what he’s done for the alpha. What if Harry doesn’t like it? What if he’s mistaken the sugar for salt? He’d die of mortification. 

“Maybe I am,” he gulps, closing the textbook and intertwining his fingers. “A thief, I mean.”

Harry hums as he takes off his corduroy hat, hanging it up on a coat rack. He doesn’t turn around as he mutters the next words. “Of my heart, maybe.”

Louis feels his entire soul leave his body, the marrow of his bones turning into ice, his heart slowing down in disbelief and speeding up in quiet hope. He looks down at the pristine white plate. _“Harry,”_ he warns, voice gentle but with an edge to it. 

Harry’s boyish grin as he sits down at the table makes the omega wants to reach out to caress the dimples, his lips, and feel their chapped skin. He holds himself back and allows himself to drink in Harry’s face, his clothes, his everything — it’s been so long, and also not long enough, since he last saw the alpha. Harry shrugs and gazes at the daisies, expression growing soft, tender, delicate big fingers coming over the little buds to caress them.

“What’s the use of hiding feelings?” Harry says, looking up at him. “I might as well be truthful.”

He shakes his head, standing up and hastily going to the chicken. He needs to gather his wits; needs to remind himself that Harry confirming his feelings might be an illusion from which he will wake up. He’s slow as he puts down the chicken and gravy, even slower as he takes the toasted bread from the oven; and his steps turn hesitant as Harry’s eyes trail down his body, lush and heavy, lighting up his skin on fire.

“That is true,” he finally answers. What is the use of smothering feelings when they speak the utmost truth? But he isn't sure he’s ready to hear anymore; he needs a little bit more time, needs to gather his wits, to glue back the shattered fragments of his feelings because right now, they don’t make any sense. He’s not yet ready to take the leap. As he sits down, a quote from _Jane Eyre_ bounces around his mind.

 _“I think I must admit so fair a guest when it asks entrance to my heart,”_ he quotes, gesturing for Harry to serve himself. With quiet wonder the alpha picks up his fork and knife, and cuts a leg off the chicken. Then, an amused grin spreads across his face.

“Are you calling me untrustworthy?” the alpha wonders, bringing a piece of cooked flesh to his mouth, humming happily. “This is delicious.”

 _I’m glad,_ he thinks, serving himself. His belly growls in hunger, but he barely feels it since his mind is getting louder and louder. “Not untrustworthy,” he corrects, fiddling with his fork. “But rather juvenile in feelings.”

Harry leans back against his chair, tilts his head in thoughts. 

“You really do have a way with words,” the alpha tells him, amazed. “I admire your connection to them, and your capacity to quote books whenever you want.”

He blushes and smiles down at his plate, bringing vegetables to his mouth. 

“And,” Harry adds, tone teasing. “You’re a good cook.”

He waves his fork at the alpha, cheeks beginning to hurt from trying to tame down his smile. “Don’t get used to it.”

“No promises there,” Harry retorts.

At one point their legs knock, Harry’s long limbs wrapping themselves around his own; and he flushes scarlet when Harry doesn’t remove his legs. The warmth from them seep through his trousers, stroke his skin, penetrate it; the heat travels up his limb and swirls around in his lower belly, making his toes curl against the hard wooden floor. Harry keeps eating without a care in the world, seemingly unbothered by the affectionate touches. A grin is the only thing that allows him to know that Harry has intended it.

They eat in silence except for the hoots of the owls and the whistle of the wind. When they’re done, they work together to put the leftovers in the cold room and clean the table. They work well together, their bodies gravitating around each other naturally. Once the room is clean and there’s only the candles’ flames to put out, do they stop moving left looking at one another. Louis doesn’t know what to do; should he go back to Green Gables already? Should he sit quietly near the windows and try to understand the chapter that’s been bothering him?

In the end, Harry moves to pick up the textbook, reading the title.

 _“The Science of Energy,”_ Harry reads, glancing at him. “It’s a complicated textbook.”

He creeps closer, their scent mixing, and he looks up at the alpha, blinking his long eyelashes. He likes how Harry’s eyes go back and forth between his irises and lips, demure desire making his green irises sparkle. And how much does he want to give in! He wants to go on his tip-toes and feel those soft lips against his own; wants his tongue to be stroked by Harry’s, and feels what it is like to be kissed. Would it be as magical as in the books? Will butterflies munch on his guts, making his entire body tickle? He hastily glances down and takes the book from Harry’s big hands, turning it over.

“It is,” he admits, exhaustion washing over him all of a sudden. He might love studying, but it’s so tiring; he lacks most fundamental knowledge needed to understand bigger theories, and he has had to speed up, knowing he won’t be ready for the acceptance test in three months if he doesn’t soak up the information. He sways forward and leans his forehead against Harry’s chest, his eyelids drooping.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Harry whispers in his head, kissing his fringe, and bending down to carry him. He goes to protest but Harry’s arms are strong and warm; inviting.

“‘M not tired,” he drawls, leaving his temple pressed against Harry’s shoulder.

“Sure you’re not,” the alpha answers, sarcastic but fond. They go up the stairs slowly, stepping into the corridor. As they draw nearer to the bedroom, he spots the photographs.

“Harry,” he gestures at the frames. “Are they…”

“Yes,” the alpha answers, eyes glancing to the side for a second before focusing back onto the in-between open door. He pushes it fully open with his foot.

“So you are…” he frowns, not able to quite let go, unsure of the answer but guessing what it’s going to be.

“An orphan,” he whispers, laying Louis down onto the bed. Harry takes the textbook from his hands, putting it on the bedside table. Then he sits down on the edge, the light coming from the lamp illuminating his handsome features; and Louis drinks them in, fearing he might go thirsty while he’s lost in his dreams. He gulps and tries to rub the tiredness away from his eyes; but Harry grabs his hands, brings them to his lips, kisses his knuckles. The touches ignite a bonfire within Louis, and his eyes soften when he sees the way Harry is looking at him. _You have to wait,_ he reminds himself. _Just wait some more._

“Don’t fight it,” Harry mumbles while turning the lamp off, words getting lost in the dark. 

He can’t tell if Harry means to stop fighting sleep, or his feelings. 

  
  


-

  
  


Two weeks fly by when there’s news of a Sunday school picnic, and Joyce expresses her desire to go. He’s not ecstatic about it, and tries to come up with all kinds of excuses to not come; from having caught a fever (he holds his face very close to the stove’s fire to warm his skin up) to feeling like he’s about to go into heat (which Joyce knows isn’t true). In the end, he is urged to get ready, which he does with a pout. He’s incredibly tired; those two weeks have been filled to the brim with learning, and he’s taken to sleeping once or so per week at Harry’s, which Joyce has expressed her disappointment for but hasn’t actively tried to prevent him from doing it. It seems she is fond of Harry, even though he is an alpha and omegas aren’t supposed to sleep unsupervised at an alpha’s house. 

He gets dressed in his usual attire, tying his red bow around his head and washing his face thoroughly. He can’t do anything about the dark circles, so he lets them be and goes downstairs.

The buggy is waiting for them, and as he goes to it, he kisses Belle’s head and caresses her.

“If I give you an apple, will you drive us anywhere but to the gardens?” he asks her, getting a snort from the animal in response.

“Louis,” Joyce admonishes, narrowing her eyes. “Go up into the buggy right this instant.”

“Yes, mom,” he mocks, rolling his eyes and jumping into the wooden thing. She scoffs loudly and joins him, David taking the reins and whistling to get Belle going.

Not a single cloud is in sight in the sky, meaning that throughout the day, it won’t rain. The thought makes him huff in exasperation, and he crosses his arms over his chest, glancing at calves playing in the grass, their mothers grazing near them. He softens at the sight and lets himself enjoy the spruce trees and the flowers whose seeds have benefitted from the spring and are now reflecting the warmth of the sun to the shining ball of light. He wants to pluck some of them and keeps them close to his chest, wants to find strength in their steady sems and innocent petals. The buggy drives through the cherry-trees and crutches the poplar leaves, and the nearer to the gardens they get, the louder the laughter gets. He dreads being treated badly again, but then he figures he shouldn’t care too much; all he has to do is stick close to Zayn, and stuff his face with food.

The picnic is laid out like last time; families hung together under the bright sky, walking among trimmed grasses, salvias, lavenders and catmints. Tables have been laid out with fruity drinks and petit-fours, white napclothes dusted with green leaves and rose petals. As David pulls the buggy in an available corner, he spots Zayn near his mother, smiling tightly at an older alpha who seems to be boring him to death. _You poor soul,_ he frowns, jumping out of the buggy and making his way to the gardens’ entrance, letting Joyce enter first.

He doesn’t dare glance at anyone, and instead keeps his eyes on Zayn, who at one point notices him. The black-haired omega lightens up and must make up some excuses for he walks away from the alpha and quickly makes his way over to him. 

He greets Joyce. “Mrs. Tomlinson,” he smiles, bowing slightly and coming to stand next to Louis.

“Call me Joyce, please,” she grins, adjusting her hat. “I feel old being called Mrs,” she laughs. “You two have fun.”

Then she takes off, walking to where Rachel is giggling in her husband’s shoulder.

Zayn puts his arm through Louis’, leaning against him and stirring him towards the drinks. “This picnic gets more and more boring each month,” Zayn sighs, grabbing a flute of champagne and passing it over to Louis. With a low chuckle, he takes a sip from the grape-smelling liquid, humming as the chilled liquid provides some much needed relief against the hot weather.

“So,” Zayn begins, leaning against the table, swirling the light golden liquid around the glass. “How have you been? How's it been studying?”

He smiles, all too happy to tell Zayn what he’s been up to.

“It’s been wonderful,” he says sincerely, caressing the wet glass, dews appearing from the contrast between cold and hot. “It’s incredibly draining, but in a good way. I think I can pass the acceptance test no problem, which is a huge relief,” he catches sight of the minister and hastily pulls Zayn towards a tree, where its leaves cast huge shadows over the ground. “Hell no,” he scoffs, ducking behind the trunk, hiding himself from sight.

“What’s the matter?” Zayn asks, stunned.

“I don’t want to ever see the minister ever again,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “That knothead proposed to Joyce to marry me off to his nephew.”

Zayn fish-mouths. “He—,” the omea shakes his head. “He’s an asshole.”

“Worse than,” he sighs. “You should have seen all the things he said about omegas and education. I’m half-sure if he ever finds out I’m planning on going to college, he’ll have me sent to a lunatic asylum under the pretence that I need mental help.”

Zayn grimaces. “I’m sorry, Lou. That must have been awful.”

He smiles self-deprecatingly, shrugging. He doesn’t mention how he’s gone to Harry that very night, unknowingly seeking comfort into the alpha’s arms; nor does he mention how the stress and the alpha’s scent has triggered his heat early. He finishes his glass and itches for another one. He licks his lips and is about to take off when Zayn stops him.

“It’s fine,” the black-haired omega smiles. “I’ll go. You stay put.”

“Thank you,” he nods, sighing and closing his eyes as he leans back against the tree trunk. He lets the shadow of the tree cool his hot skin, the sunlight filtering through random holes in the canopy. He’s so lost in his thoughts that he fails to smell the new scent, or feel the presence in front of him.

“Louis,” Niall says, voice neutral, devoid of any emotion. He startles and straightens up, hands nervously soothing out his shirt. He gulps as he takes in Niall’s delicate face, and feels dread slowly fill him up as Niall avoids meeting his eyes.

“Niall,” he mutters, turning his head to look for Zayn. He mentally curses when he finds that the omega is taking a bit longer to come back, having been whisked away in a conversation with Prissy, the minister’s wife. He licks his lip. “How do you do?”

Niall shrugs. “Fine, I guess.”

The awkwardness turns to ice as Niall’s sharp blue eyes fall upon him, cold, unwavering. “Let’s cut the crap, shall we?” Niall smiles, though it’s as fake as the diamond on the necklace hanging around Mrs. Chapman’s neck and resting on her bosom. “You’ve grown quite close to Harry.”

 _Ah, there it is,_ he thinks bitterly, his eyes going to his boots in apprehension. “I have,” he decides to admit. What’s the point of fibbing? He’s sure Niall knows about his going over to Harry’s house. He hasn’t been discreet about it, hasn’t tried to walk through the abyss of the woods to avoid the main road. He’s just… he has forgotten that it might be irksome to some, Niall included.

“I know,” Niall says, voice dry. “And it’s hurting me.”

It’s like a stab to his heart, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. 

“I’m sorry about that,” he manages to get out, digging his fingernails into his biceps. He’s nervous, torn between feeling bad that he’s hurt his friend and feeling defensive because he didn’t ask for all of this to happen.

“Well,” Niall chuckles bitterly. “Being sorry isn’t going to fix what you stole from me.”

 _“Stole?”_ he blinks, turning his body towards the blonde omega, shocked to hear such words come out of Niall’s mouth. As if Harry were an object waiting to be claimed; as if he weren’t a person who is free to make its own choices. It makes his blood boil to think of someone talking that way about Harry — about anyone, really. He knows what it’s like being treated like less than dog shit, he knows how it feels to be shrunk to nothing more than a piece of commodity that needs to be taken care of. And if Niall truly loves Harry, how could he talk so badly of him?

“You stole him from me,” Niall grits out with wet eyes, bringing his shaky fingers to his eyelids, wiping a few drops away as they slide down his cheeks.

He doesn’t mean to feel angry over what’s going on, and he wants to understand how Niall feels, he truly does, but there’s the bitter need to defend Harry that grips his heart and squeezes in distress. He takes a step away from the trunk.

“How have I stolen him from you,” he begins slowly, not even glancing back as he speaks. “When he was never yours to begin with?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, doesn’t need to hear anymore from the blonde omega; he rushes to the other side of the gardens, needing to be alone to breathe properly.

  
  


-

  
  


He takes out his frustration Niall has fostered within him by studying. Hard. He doesn’t stop reading textbooks and learning them, doesn’t stop jotting down notes. His vision is tainted with black ink, and his brain is overwhelmed with words. He spends a lot of time with Harry, at night mostly, but both of them are stressed as the date of the exam approaches; it’s less than a month and a half away. So even though they don’t talk all that much, or find any time to do fun things together, just being able to feel each other’s presence is enough.

He’s stopped feeling guilty after his encounter with Niall. It isn’t his fault if Harry has taken an interest in him, just as it isn’t his fault for reciprocating the sentiments. He _feels_ when he is around the alpha — so why would he deny himself the kind of affection he’s always wanted to have but never thought would get to experience?

Days fade into weeks, and his love for Harry increases. It isn’t difficult for it to; Harry is caring, sweet, and has bewitched him. The jug within him fills up whenever Harry brings him a cup of tea while he’s reciting a lesson out loud, trying to get it to stay in his brain; it rises in volume whenever Harry drops a kiss to his temple, or presses his fingers in his tense shoulders; or when the alpha mutters words of encouragement in the dead of the night, when his body is overtaken by stress and plagued by nightmares. He isn’t used to the rhythm he’s set for himself, but he manages to pull through the discomfort thanks to Harry’s patience and love-infused actions.

He’s walking through the woods, on his way to Harry’s with a basket full of snacks when he’s stopped by Madeleine emerging from the trees. She’s dressed in a light summer dress, dark heeled shoes digging into the soil as she spots him and stops short.

“Louis,” she says in her high-pitched voice, blinking sweetly. “How nice to see you!”

His heart begins to beat fast, wondering what on earth she’s doing so close to Harry’s house. He remains quiet but offers a little grin, glancing over her shoulder, eager to get going. He feels uneasy and he just wants to be somewhere familiar and nice; not in the woods, alone with Madeleine of all people.

“I was looking for you!” she admits, bouncing up to him and intertwining her arm in his own. He frowns and wishes to wrench himself out of the grip, but she’s holding him tight and is stirring them away from the house. “You see, me and a few omegas have decided to picnic near the shore. It’s such a lovely day! You should come.”

 _I don’t want to,_ he gulps, glancing over his shoulder. “I—”

“Splendid!” she exclaims, and he’s left with no other choice but to remain quiet. His jaw clenches as she babbles away for the entire walk, and to tune her out he decides to focus on the rolling farmsteads and the trees and just about anything that will take his mind off the fact he’s losing precious time to study.

The air quickly goes from sweet to bitter as the salt of the ocean taints the air. He allows his lungs to fill to the brim with the delicate fragrance, sighing in relief when Madeleine drops his arms and skips to a group of omega, sat in the grass. He could turn around and slide out of sight quickly, but all of them turn to look at him, their eyes digging into his soul. With his heart in his throat, he doesn’t spot Zayn; but Niall has got his wide blue eyes on him, and if the ground would open and swallow him whole he’d be glad.

He approaches the group slowly, smiling tentatively, though most of them are already snickering, while others are avoiding his gaze. _Great,_ he mentally scoffs. 

“Please,” Madeline smiles. “Sit down!”

He doesn’t want to, but he complies and sits as far as he possibly can without making it weird, tucking his feet underneath his ass. He puts his basket next to him, and spreads his fingers over his thighs.

They don’t pay him any mind, and he doesn’t either, choosing to watch the ocean. Seagulls soar by, their pinions glistening under the sun. Their crisp chirping is interrupted periodically by the giggles of the omegas. They talk and eat and share stories that he doesn’t much care about; his brain is reciting the history of Ireland. He only truly pays attention to them when he hears Harry’s name slip into the conversation.

“The alphas should walk by the road in several minutes,” Madeleine blushes, standing up. “C’mon, let’s go to the cliff!”

He plans on staying in the grass and enjoying a bit of quiet, but then Madeleine gestures for him to follow, and with a grimace he follows them. The closer to the cliff they get, the windier it gets. His hair is ruffled and his body is thrown forward from how hard it’s blowing, and he has to cross his arms over his chest to keep his shirt from puffing out. He blinks rapidly to chase the tears, scrunching them closed when dust threatens to enter them.

The omegas are much too close to the cliff, laughing and twirling. He begins to feel worried for them and he begins to shout for them to step away, but they can’t hear him over the deafening roar of the wind. He licks his dry lips and walks closer, digging the soles of his boots into the soil, until he’s close enough to see the ocean underneath. It’s not a high cliff by any means, and if it were less windy, anyone could have fun and jump from it; but as it is, the waves are tall and crash against the rocky edge, and it’d be difficult to swim and make it back to the shore. 

“Hey!” he screams, finally drawing their attention to him. “Please, be careful!”

Madeleine throws her head back and laughs. “What, orphan boy is scared of a bit of wind?”

He frowns, lips twitching. “No,” he answers dryly. “Orphan boy is just not stupid.”

He watches as she flushes, sending him a disdainful look. He jumps as he feels someone — Mary — circles his shoulders with her arm and forces him closer to the edge of the cliff. He tries to pull away, but she’s busy laughing and holding her hat. 

“How thrilling!” she screams, smashing the side of her head against his own. _It’s dangerous,_ he wants to snap, but he’s frozen as he gazes down and becomes dizzy. The waves create foam that spreads out as they pull back, and he quickly looks up as his lower belly tickles uncomfortably.

“Let me go,” he grits out, elbowing his way out of her arm. She frowns but doesn’t say anything else, going over to Niall, who is standing to the side, staring blankly ahead of him. He’s about to turn around and hurries over to his basket, when Madeleine traps him in her own arms, her lights sparkling.

“Look,” she whispers in his ears, gesturing at dark figures in the distance, growing closer as the seconds tick by. He blinks and squints his eyes, trying to see who it might be though the wind renders the action difficult. Her nails dig into his biceps, not painfully, but enough for him to know that she’s there. _Let me go, for Christ’s sake,_ he mentally curses, eyes widening as he sees Harry staring back at him, a frown on his face.

The alpha is accompanied by several other alphas, who are chuckling and shouting things at them, though he can’t make sense of the words, too busy flushing as Harry’s eyes never stray away from him. They look angry and worried, and as he comes closer, he can see the way Harry’s jaw is clenched. 

“You are too close to the edge!” he screams, gesturing for them to come closer, but Madeleine only chuckles.

“Come and get us!” she shouts, twirling a long strand of blonde hair around her forefinger. He shakes his head, exasperated, and glances to the side to find Niall’s eyes on him, wide and unblinking. He gulps and gently pulls Madeleine’s fingers away from him, stepping to the side, ready to join Harry. The alpha is right; they’re too close.

But then a particularly strong blow of the wind sends Madeleine tripping back, and his eyes widen, his heart freezing. He launches forward, gripping her hand and pulling her up before she topples over the edge. Her eyes are wide with fear, and as he pulls her towards him, she frantically tries to straighten up.

“W— wait Madeleine,” he stutters, losing his balance. He feels her fingers grip his shirt, and he’s not sure he’s going to pull them both up if she puts her entire weight on him. Her elbow digs into his shoulder as she scrambles to the grass, but in the process she makes him lose his balance completely, the edge of the cliff disappearing, the ground underneath his feet fading. His heart stops beating as he hears someone shout his name, the voice sounding frantic, panicked, burning with agony.

Then, he’s falling.

  
  


-

  
  


He can’t swim.

That’s what he keeps thinking, again and again, as he free falls through emptiness and straight to his death.

He can’t swim. _He can’t swim he can’t swim he can’t swim._ He can’t feel anything besides bone-freezing fear, and he’s numb. His eyes are on the cliff, and his lips open slightly as he sees Harry jumps, too, diving towards him.

He closes his eyes and prepares for the impact.

It doesn’t take long to arrive.

The water is cold as ice, hard as rock, unforgiving. His limbs flail and he tries to push forward, but he can’t swim.

Bubbles escape his lips as water dives into his throat, blocking his air flow, causing pain to blossom as his lungs are being choked. He snaps his lips closed, closing his eyes as all he sees is blue, blue, blue, and he can’t tell if he’s crying; and if he is, the drops are getting lost in the endless abyss of the sea. 

Dying sounded sweeter in the books he’s read.

  
  


-

  
  


_“Heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights; where I woke sobbing for joy.”_

His vision is blurry, and his eyes hurt. There are spots of white and blue dancing as he blinks his eyelids open. His body spasms and water painfully shoots out of his throat. It’s so, so cold; he’s not sure he’s ever been this cold in his entire life. It takes time for him to feel his toes, or be able to move them; and it takes longer for the air to go through his nose again. Salt has burned the inside of his body, scratched his skin raw. Something warm envelops his body, fingers cradle the back of his head, and he can’t feel the rough texture of the sand anymore. Voices overlap one another in the background, and he can’t make out the words; his ears whistle horribly, making him wince. The only thing that registers to his brain is the warm body against his own, and the faint scent of alpha tickling his nostrils, trying to find a passageway into his body,

and to his beating heart.

  
  


-

  
  


It smells strongly of broth. The room is bathed in an orangish-glow, shadows dancing on the walls opposite him. He groans as his temples throb. The ceiling is dark and blank, but at least the blanket draped over his body is soft, and smells like Harry.

He tries to sit up, struggling to do so, but it feels good to get out of his current position. His sore muscles are crying out, tormented, and with a little moan he manages to stand up. The soft sound must draw Harry’s attention for in an instant, the alpha is by his side, large hands holding him by the waist.

“Easy,” the alpha whispers, helping him walk to the dining table. Harry pulls out a chair and helps him sit down, the small of his back hurting. He sighs, his eyes watering. He doesn’t need to look up to know Harry’s looking at him, worried. “It’s alright,” he says, crouching down and tenderly rubbing his thumbs over Louis’ puffy eyes, smudging the tears. “It’s alright,” he repeats, softer. Unconsciously, Harry releases soothing pheromones, making Louis relax. Had it been anyone else he would have thrown a tantrum. Instead, he welcomes Harry’s scent fully, letting it merge with his own until they’re cocooned by their own little clouds.

“There,” Harry stands up, dropping a kiss on his forehead. “I’m almost finished with the broth. In the meantime,” he turns around, grabs a glass of water and carefully puts two drops of poppy in it. “This will help with the pain.”

He nods and takes the glass, sipping it and wincing whenever he swallows. His throat hurts a lot, and it’s scratchy. He manages to drown the glass, although now that he knows how difficult and painful it is for him to swallow, he’s not sure he’s ready to eat Harry’s broth.

He waits wordlessly as the broth finishes simmering, then Harry pours a bit into a bowl and puts it down before him, with a spoon. He’s taken a much bigger bowl for himself, and it makes Louis smile despite his plight.

The painkiller takes a while to kick in, but when it does, his shoulders droop in relief. He’s scared to see the state of his back, knowing it must be blue and yellow with bruises from where the water has hit it. They finish eating in comfortable silence, though so many unsaid words hang in the air between them. There isn’t much he remembers after meeting the water, but he can still picture Harry’s face as he was about to fall; the worry and the pain, the fright.

He can’t believe this even happened to him. 

“How long was I out?” he wonders, curious.

“Only a day,” Harry reassures him. “I’ve told Joyce about what happened. She came by this morning with a doctor.”

His heart drops as he pictures her frantic, worried face, and somehow he feels guilty for what happened. Had he been firm enough and told Madeleine to leave him alone, none of this would have occurred. He rests his forehead onto his hands, feeling drained of energy. Harry stands up and rounds the table, then long fingers start to massage his shoulders.

“She must have been worried,” he sniffs, a tear sliding down his cheek.

Harry’s touch is recomforting. “She was,” he admits. “But she was also extremely angry at those omegas. She nearly ripped Madeleine’s hair out.”

He chuckles, his body spasming. “I can imagine that.”

At one point they move to the settees, Harry arranging the pillows so that when Louis sits down, he’s comfortable. He smiles softly at Harry, who puts his arms around his shoulder and draws him closer to his body. All he can think about is Harry, and his scent, and how glad he is to be by Harry’s side. 

He’s cuddling with the person who saved his life.

He blinks quickly to chase the tears away and snuggled closer into Harry’s chest. _Thank you,_ he wants to mutter, even though those two words could never be enough to express the extent of his gratitude. Harry’s been there even when dark was all he could see and think, a bit like a sun ray trying to break through the layer of evil, trying to save him from meeting his end.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life,” Harry admits, breaking the silence. He leans back and looks up at the alpha, a tear sliding down his cheek as Harry looks down, green irises wide open, tormented. It seems that’s all he can do nowadays; cry, and fall even more for Harry Styles.

He freezes as Harry ducks down and kisses the salty drop, showering little pecks up to his eyelids, then to his sweaty forehead. He’s never been kissed so tenderly, or held so gently; he’s never had anyone do that willingly to him. He cries harder, burying his flushed face in the crook of Harry’s neck, breathing in the alpha’s scent as if it were some kind of drug that he can’t have enough. Harry lets him cry for as long as he needs, keeps rubbing his arms and passing his fingers through his hair.

“Want to see something fun?” Harry asks when he calms down, straightening up and smiling boyishly. “You’re going to love it.”

He blinks his puffy eyes. “Sure,” he whispers, curiously looking at the alpha as he disappears upstairs. When he comes back, he’s carrying nails and wires, which makes Louis confused, especially when he goes to the kitchen and comes back with potatoes.

“I’m going to show you how to make light with potatoes,” Harry grins, sitting down at the coffee table and dropping everything on the surface. 

“What?” he asks, slowly sitting down, blinking suspiciously at the alpha. “Is that really possible?”

“Yes,” Harry gestures for him to come closer. “Sit here,” he lets his long legs drop open and pats the empty space between them. Weeks ago, he would have hesitated to sit so close to the alpha, maybe even would have refused; but now he craves intimacy, and rushes to the alpha, gently folding himself against the alpha’s chest, humming softly in pleasure. That pulls a fond chuckle from the alpha. 

“Comfy?” Harry asks, teasing as he kisses the top of Louis’ head.

“Very,” Louis answers, drawing his knees to his chest.

“Alright,” Harry begins, grabbing a potato. “As you know, a potato contains sugar, water, and acid, and there are certain types of metals, especially copper and zinc, that react with the potato when inserted inside the vegetable. We can make our own electric current using potatoes, in order to light a light bulb.”

He listens with rasp attention, completely entranced. Harry continues.

“Those metals become electrodes, one positive and the other negative, and electrons flow between the metals inside the potato, creating a small electric current,” he takes the wires. “By connecting wires from the electrodes to a light bulb, a circuit is created.”

“The electrons flow from the positive electrodes to the light bulb and back to the negative electrodes,” he adds in awe, wide eyes following Harry’s fingers.

“Exactly,” Harry beams, kissing his temple. “So you take the nails,” he says softly, leaning forward, his chest pressing against Louis’ back. “You put them into the potato, about one inch apart from each other. Then you take the wires, wrap their ends around the top of the nails, then put the opposite ends of the wire onto the two terminals of the light bulb… and…”

The light bulb flickers to life, the glow weak but there, illuminating the table. He gasps and his hands come up over Harry’s, tightening in wonder.

“That’s incredible,” he gasps, glancing over his shoulder at Harry. “Thank you for showing me this.”

They gaze at each other for several seconds, Harry’s hand coming down to his hips, squeezing gently. He’s sure his heart is beating loud enough for them both to hear it. Harry’s eyes have darkened as he glances down at his lips, and he doesn’t know what overtakes him but one second he’s licking his lips and the other, he’s licking into Harry’s mouth.

A little, startled gasp leaves Harry’s lips as they crash against Louis’, but he’s quick to wrap his arms around Louis, pushing their bodies together. He’s careful not to put pressure over Louis’ bruises, but even though the embrace is soft, it’s heated and full of relief. Louis lets out little, pleased moans as his lips part on instinct and Harry’s tongue slips into his mouth, sending electricity down his throat, lighting up his insides. It’s as if they had been waiting for that very moment for a while, and now that they finally get to experience it, they don’t ever want for it to stop.

He’s never, ever felt that way; and he’s glad that his first kiss feels as incredible as what he’s read. Butterflies cup his heart with their wings, making him feel whole. Harry cups the back of his head, his long fingers enveloping the entire of it. They’re so close to one another that he can taste the broth on Harry’s tongue and smell whiffs of his alpha scent as he breathes out. His toes curl in pleasure as Harry’s fingers go underneath his shirt and caresses his skin, igniting the area he touches on fire. He feels himself bloom like a flower in spring as he’s completely enveloped by Harry. Their kiss is passion, love, respect and need; their kiss is the first drop of water on a parched tongue. It’s the first ray of sunshine in the morning, the first star in a pitch black sky; their kiss is electric current going through their veins, a drop of blood against a meadow of snow. It’s power and everything, everything he has ever wanted.

They don’t stop, not even to breath; he fists the front of Harry’s shirt, pulls the alpha closer. He’s gone feral, he can’t breath, can’t think, can’t control the sounds that spill from his lips or the tears that threaten to fall. Every stroke of Harry’s tongue against his own is a drop of colour in a plain white canvas, and every caress of Harry’s fingers on his skin is a lighting bolt striking the sky, cutting it in two. When their lips detach, strings of saliva connect the rose petals, but Harry dives in again, kissing him with even more fervour. Harry sucks away the pain, takes it upon himself to share Louis’ inner demons; they support each other, they’re equals, they’re made for each other.

And Louis… he’s falling all over again, but this time, he isn’t afraid.

  
  


-

  
  


The acceptance test is close by, and he wakes up one morning to Harry pressing kisses into his skin. He’s not yet aware of how important the day is, smiling softly and nuzzling into the pillow underneath his head. 

“Time to get up, love,” Harry whispers in his ear.

“Don’t wanna,” he drawls out, baring his neck as Harry noses at the skin there, leaving butterfly-soft kisses all over the skin. He moans in pleasure, and chuckles as he is tickled.

“Today the sign-up form to the test is handed out,” Harry informs him in between kisses, the words taking a few seconds too long to reach Louis’; but when it does, the omega’s eyes fly open and he sits up, pushing Harry’s face away, pouting.

“You couldn’t tell me that earlier?” he panics, flying out of bed and rushing to the bathroom, ignoring Harry’s dramatic _‘ouch’_ and _‘come back, please, my love’._ He’s too nervous to listen to Harry’s enticing words, and as much as he wants to go back into the warm bed, he begins to dress up and freshen up.

The acceptance test to Redmond College is two weeks away, but to be able to take it, he has to sign a form certifying that he will, indeed, take the test. He’s been on wits end trying to gobble down the last pieces of knowledge he’ll need to ace the test; and although he’s been studying with Harry, and is guaranteed that he is ready from answering little quizzes they’ve created together, there’s still doubt lingering in his mind.

When he steps out of the bathroom, Harry is already dressed and waiting for him by the door with a bowl full of fruits, from chopped up apples to grapes to pieces of orange. He takes it with a gentle smile, and goes on his tip-toes to press his lips against Harry’s. It’s something they’ve taken to doing now; they kiss as much as they can, addicted to each other’s taste.

“Thank you,” he breathes out, ducking his head as Harry winks at him.

Summer is going strong, the unforgiving as it shines overhead, caressing the meadows. The flowers drink from the soil as rain becomes less frequent. Crocuses and daisies caress their calves as they walk to the woods, and he flushes when Harry intertwines their fingers together. It’s soft and tentative, but he’s all too happy that Harry isn't ashamed of him, and doesn’t mind if anyone sees them holding hands. It makes his heart grow in size, makes him look down with a blush on his cheeks; and he walks closer to his alpha.

 _His._ He’s accepted that his omega considers Harry as his alpha; and more than accepted, he’s come to love it. With Harry, he doesn’t feel like he belongs to the alpha, and if he does, he knows it goes both ways; Harry is his just as much as he is Harry’s. The alpha has never tried pushing him into a golden box where he can only be a shadow; he’s glowing as bright as the sun, and Harry has never felt triggered by it.

He hasn’t seen the whitewashed walls of Avonlea school is months, and he gulps as it comes into sight. It stands, picturesque, against a landscape of spruce trees, cattle, rolling hills and hovering mountains whose tips are in the clouds. Weeds have grown to the knee around the school, gently waving to the breeze. Harry tightens his hold around his hand reassuringly, glancing down at him with eyes the lovely colour of mossy green.

“It’ll be alright,” the alpha tells him as they begin to walk again, and he thinks, _maybe._ But he’s not sure it will; what if he isn’t given a form to sign because of his being an omega? He’ll wrench that paper out of the alpha’s hands if he has to.

He doesn’t waste time in front of the omega’s room; he follows Harry to the alpha’s, glancing inside a room, seeing a kitchen, which is used by the omegas to learn how to cook. He scrunches up his nose and ducks his head, boots caressing the dry soil. The air is infused with a mix of strong alpha scents, but despite being attacked at all sides, Harry’s scent is the only one that reaches his brain and makes sense, the only one he can detect and enjoy. He feels Harry slides a hand on his hip, squeezes reassuringly, then drops it away as they wait by the classroom’s door. They take turns going to the professor’s desk to sign the form, and he steps into the line, feeling him sweat from apprehension.

He gets odd looks from the alphas, but he ignores them, deciding to focus on one of the windows and the tables he can see through it. The classroom looks a lot like the omegas’, except it’s bigger and has shelves upon shelves of textbooks. He wants to barge into it and jumps on the thick books, but he stays out and settles on looking at them longingly. When he tilts his head to the left, he can see the professor; he wears thin glasses, his hair is raven black and curly, and he’s thin. He looks severe and clever, and it does nothing to quench his nervousness. 

The time comes for him to go, and he feels Harry’s breath fall upon his ear as the alpha leans down.

“It’ll be alright,” Harry whispers, kissing the shell of his ear. “I—,” he stops himself, hesitant. Louis reaches down to squeeze the alpha’s hand. 

“I have to go,” he hastily gets out, stepping forward and leaving the alpha gazing after him in longing, though he doesn’t see nor feel it, plagued by all kinds of nightmarish thoughts. He clenches and unclenches his fingers as he steps through the doorway, breathing gently through his nose.

The professor frowns and snaps his eyes up to him, nostrils flaring. He removes his thin glasses, as if removing the thing that allows him to see will make Louis disappear. He hides his annoyance as he stops before the alpha’s desk, hands clasped in front of him.

“May I help you?” the alpha blinks, capping his fountain pen. He holds himself back from rolling his eyes at the alpha’s behaviour.

“Yes, please,” he smiles tightly. “I’d like to sign the form.”

The professor looks at him for several seconds, then chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s only for alphas.”

He closes his fingers into fists. “That’s not true. The acceptance test is open to everyone.”

The professor sighs, looking at him as if he were the most idiotic person on earth. “You’re an omega. You haven’t gotten the proper education to pass that test. I’m saving you from imminent embarrassment and disappointment.”

He sighs and swallows his wrath, glancing down at the small pile of forms. He won’t let the professor’s words ghetto him; he will control his temper. All he has to do is convince the alpha to give him the form. What does it matter to the alpha that he risks embarrassment, or disappointment? If he wants to take the risks then it’s on him.

“Please, Sir,” he licks his lips and tries to soothe his face into a neutral expression. “I’d like to sign it.”

The professor hums, puts his glasses back on, uncaps his fountain pain and begins writing again. “I’m afraid printing is ridiculously expensive; I don’t have copies to waste.”

His mouth drops open and he looks down at the alpha in disbelief. He can’t believe his ears, can’t believe the alpha doesn’t believe in him passing the test and, as a consequence, doesn’t want to _waste paper_ on him. He has to push the back of his hand against his lips to keep the nasty words that want to come out from spilling out of his lips. He’s trying to come up with a nice thing to say to get the alpha to listen to him, but before he can open his mouth, he smells Harry coming closer, until the green-eyed alpha is standing next to him. The professor looks at him and instantly, his face lights up.

“Harry!” he exclaims, reaching out to shake Harry’s hand. “My best student. I’m glad you carried through. Here, here,” the professors gives Harry a form, uncaring of Louis’ round, hurt and unbelieving eyes. He’s about to lash out when Harry calmly speaks up.

“Sir,” he begins, gesturing at Louis. “I believe it is true that the acceptance test is open to every person, regardless of their gender. For this very reason, it can’t be that you’ll be wasting paper over a willing candidate. It’s only fair that an omega gets to participate in the test as well.”

The professor frowns, staring at Harry for way too long. Then he turns his scornful eyes on Louis, looking him up and down. Then with a sigh, he takes a form from the pile and slides it across the desk, towards him. “Well,” he scoffs. “I’m doing this because you are my best student, Harry,” then he glances at him. “Good luck to you,” he says sarcastically.

It’s clear there’s no conviction behind the words, and with a sweet little grin, he snatches a pen from the desk, uncaps it, fills the empty spaces with his personal information, then passes the form over again. He twists the cap back on and storms out of the classroom, glaring at any pair of eyes he encounters. He can’t believe the audacity of that pathetic excuse of an alpha; and above all, he can’t believe all it took was for Harry to step in to get the professor into agreeing. He feels belittled, and embarrassed that he needed Harry for something as simple as signing a form. He breathes harshly through his nose, vision white with anger, and doesn’t stop when he hears Harry call out his name.

“Louis! Wait!” 

Tears swim in his eyes. Fingers close around his wrist, pulling him into a firm chest, Harry’s hot breath fanning over the back of his neck. He doesn’t look at the alpha; in fact he glares at the ground.

“Louis, look at me please,” Harry whispers, cradling his face and trying to tip his head back; but he wrenches himself free from the alpha’s warm and welcoming arms, and begins walking again. He knows it takes a while for the alpha to startle out of his stupod, but when he does, his heavy steps follows the omega through the field. “Louis,” he says, loud and demanding, confused. “Why on earth are you acting like that?”

It must be the drop that breaks the camel’s back, for Louis spins around and begins shouting.

“I don’t need you to step into my business!” he screams, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. “I could have gotten that form without you going alpha on me and thinking it’s your duty to come to my rescue. We might be together but that doesn’t give you any right to speak over me.”

Harry stares at him in shock. “I wasn’t—- I wasn’t trying to speak over you. I just wanted to help you.”

“I didn’t need your help!” he snaps, tears of frustration threatening to spill out though he sucks them in. He isn’t a weak omega, and he doesn’t need Harry to make him feel like one.

Harry is calm as he answers. “Yes, you needed it, Louis. It won’t do you any good to deny it.”

He huffs and is about to whirl around and storm away, when Harry circles his waist and makes them sit down among the verbenas. He tries to elbow his way out of Harry’s embrace, but when he’s hit with whiffs of soothing pheromones, he calms down.

“Not fair,” he mutters, closing his eyes and laying his head against Harry’s heart. Its steady rhythm is nice to listen to. 

“Yes fair,” Harry answers, slightly cheeky, though his face is serious. “You need to understand that my helping you doesn’t belittle your worth as an omega, or an individual. You have to remember that we live in an alpha-chauvinist world; and you can’t do anything about it. Of course, condemning those in excessive privileges is wonderful and necessary if we want to make the world a better place, but that does not mean you shouldn’t, from time to time, bend to that world you loathe so much, and only when it benefits you. I never intended to make you feel weak, Louis; I’d rather die than even make you feel that way. All I did was talk to an asshole who would have never listened to you.”

Louis remains silent, flushing, ashamed of his reaction, though still bitter the situation had to take such an acid turn.

“Tell me,” Harry continues, gently stroking his back. “If Mr. Basil had refused to give you the form, what would you have done?”

He shrugs. “Probably sock in right in the kisser before stealing a form.”

Harry snorts, shaking his head fondly. “I’m sure you would have. But picture this; what if you never managed to get the form? Then you wouldn’t have been able to pass the acceptance test, and you would have never gone to college to realize your dreams. Whereas all I had to do is step in, call out Mr. Basil’s bullshit knowing my being an alpha would have embarrassed him, to get you a form. And you know what will really be a sock in that knothead’s kisser? You acing the test, which I know you will. You will prove him wrong. You will show him that when he gave you that copy of the form, he didn’t waste anything; he only made himself look like a fool, and sound like an asshole. But all of this won’t happen if you haven't gotten the form.”

“You— you’re right,” he sighs, moving so that he’s straddling Harry’s lap and he can wrap his arms around the alpha’s shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, nuzzling his cold nose against Harry’s throat, drinking in his alpha’s scent.

Harry rubs his hands up and down his back, peppering kisses all over his cheek. “It’s nothing, my love,” he whispers, tightening his arms. “I will never think of you as lesser than me. I know you’re my equal. Society’s views on your gender won’t make me think any differently.”

He smiles into Harry’s skin and leans back, pressing a kiss against the alpha’s lips. “Mr. Basil could use a lesson or two from you.”

They laugh, the summer wind carrying the sound through Avonlea, and far, far beyond the roaring sea.

  
  


-

  
  


Rain has grown scarce to the point he finds himself pouring buckets of water over the flowers surrounding Green Gables. He’s humming to himself, gently swaying as the sun warms up his back, when his attention is pulled away from the wild roses by a little ruckus coming from the fences. He frowns as he notices Liam holding Harry back from stalking to— _is that Niall? And Zayn?_ He wipes his wet hands on his trousers and slowly makes his way over to the omegas. 

David pretends not to care about what’s going on, but in truth he glances worriedly to where Harry is red with anger, ready to intervene if anything goes wrong. He comes close enough to see Niall looking down dejectedly at his boots, a heavy-looking basket weighed down at the tip of his fingertips. Zayn is arguing with Harry, waving his hands.

“He’s come to apologize!” Zayn seems to repeat rather disdainfully. 

“He and his gang of snakes almost killed my omega, so pardon me for having some doubts!” Harry snaps back, fixing Niall with a look that could probably cut through butter with only the sheer force of will. His heart skips a beat at _‘my omega’,_ still flustered even though he’s been going around referring to Louis that way for close to an entire week. He remembers when Joyce almost fainted when Harry came knocking at eight in the evening to ask her permission for him to pursue a relationship with him.

He smiles gently as he puts his hand on Harry’s bicep. “Harry, please, it’s alright. I’ll take it from here. You go back to the barn.”

Harry glances at him, making sure he’s truly fine, and he nods reassuringly. Then the alpha huffs, drops a kiss to his forehead (his favorite place to kiss), then stalks off towards the barn but not without glaring darkly one last time at Niall. 

He sighs. “Don’t mind him,” he says, taking Zayn into a hug.

“He needs to control his temper, that one,” Zayn snarls, saying it particularly loudly so that Harry would hear it. 

“No, he doesn’t,” Niall says, voice tiny. “He has every right to act and feel that way, Zayn. I know I didn’t push you or anything, Louis; but I was there, I knew you were too close to the edge, and I didn’t do anything to prevent the catastrophe from happening. In fact, part of me wanted it to happen, and it’s been haunting me ever since.”

He blinks his wet, round blue eyes at him, guilt and shame swirling within them. He is honest, that much is sure; but a shiver racks through his body at his admission that he had wanted for him to fall off the cliff and probably die on the way down.

“This,” Niall gently holds the basket out. “Is things I baked, just… an apology basket?” he glances at Zayn, unsure. “I know this will never make up for what has transpired, but I hope that one day, you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me. Not just for the accident on the shore road; but also for the way I’ve spoken to you. It’s obvious he loves you, and that you love him, and I should have respected that.”

He takes the straw, unsurprised as its weight makes his sway. He glances between Zayn and Niall, finding the former’s eyes lingering on the barn (and he knows it must be for Liam), and the latter nervously chews on his bottom lip until it turns velvet and bleeds a little. He softens, knowing Niall is genuine in his apology.

“Thank you, Niall,” he nods, looking directly into the omega’s blue eyes. “I admit it’s hard to… digest what has occurred between us. But know that I hold no more hard feelings.”

Niall manages a tiny smile, and when he sees he won’t get anymore from him, he turns around and walks away from Green Gables. Zayn lingers behind, arms crossed over his chest.

“He’s truly sorry, you know,” the black-haired omega says, glancing at him. He shrugs and puts the basket down by his feet.

“I’ve signed the form to pass the acceptance test,” he changes the subject, eyes on Niall’s retreating figure. He doesn’t know what to feel or how to feel; but he knows tomorrow, the pain he felt will have soothed out some more.

Zayn’s face lights up. “That’s wonderful, Lou. You will smash it!”

He lets himself be hugged by his friend, closing his eyes as he smells Zayn’s comforting scent. Then he leaves, too, hands in his trousers’ pockets.

He stares after them, and doesn’t bulge for a while, the sun setting in the distance, the sky turning golden.

  
  


-

  
  


The day of the acceptance test, he barely eats anything, mind busy imagining all the questions he might fall onto. Harry tries to act as if he weren’t affected, but deep down Louis knows the alpha isn’t faring any better, especially since his scent has shifted into something more acidic. They cuddle in bed and eat fruits, drink tea and enjoy the morning flush; they both weren’t able to get much sleep, despite their limbs being intertwined like heart-shaped vines.

They get dressed while the birds chirp outside and cattle moos. They hold hands as they walk to the school, their pencil burning holes in their back pocket. They left early so they could enjoy their walk. Harry pulls him closer to his body, dropping random kisses to his forehead and temples every once in a while; even going as far as pushing him against a tree trunk and snogging him until he’s breathless and flushed.

“I don’t think I can show up to the test with my lips bitten raw,” he whispers, stroking his thumbs over Harry’s cheekbones, leaving soft kisses along his alpha’s jaw. “They’ll think I’ve been attacked by a wolf.”

Harry only growls in his neck, his canines peeking out and caressing the side of his neck, sending his heart in a frantic beating and his mind in endless thoughts of mating with his alpha. He knows Harry has left a love bite near his collarbones when they woke up to a pitch black sky, and as they reach the school, it tickles underneath his shirt, serving a reminder that no matter what, he isn’t alone. He tightens his hold on Harry’s fingers as they walk closer to the door, which hides his destiny. 

“I’m scared,” he admits, breathing the words against Harry’s throat.

The alpha ducks his head and presses his lips against the omega’s, and like a secret that’s being shared, he whispers, _“me too”._

  
  


-

  
  


The days are coloured in a rhythmic pattern of waking up and busying his mind with mundane things. Fifteen days have gone by since the test; and ever since he’s been floating on a dark, grey cloud, saved from crashing to the ground by Harry’s arms around his waist.

The stress of awaiting his results is tainting his thoughts until they dive into gloom, struggling to find their ways back to the light, but he has Harry to share his state of mind with. They find comfort in every kiss they share, in every touch they steal, in every giggle they mutter. Harry is golden in a canvas of silver, and he shines brighter than the stars, and he’s become everything to Louis. He struggles picturing himself without the alpha by his side, is the thing. If his dark thoughts have sired pain within him, the light ones are full of pups and a bite mark on his neck. It always sends his heart into a beating organ of hope, nourishing his veins and his days. He lets himself be kissed silly and lets himself be loved until he’s so overwhelmed he has to sit down and cry, dews of joy sliding down his cheeks.

But like always, nice things never last.

  
  


-

  
  


He knows there’s a crack in his little heaven when his admission letter is five days late. Almost every alpha has gotten theirs, telling them whether they’re accepted or not; but he never receives anything. Everyday he awaits by Green Gables’ fence, dawn breaking slowly but surely in the distance; everyday, the postman passes by on his bike with his hand outreached; and everyday, without fail, his name doesn’t appear as he goes through the stack of letters.

He doesn’t think he’s ever cried so much.

  
  


-

  
  


It’s hard to grin when kisses are pressed against his face and arms circle his waist, a tall, broad body cuddling him while the soft breeze blows through the meadow. He soothes out the shirt he has just hung up on a string of thread; and he leans his head back, blinking up slowly at Harry. The kiss that’s dropped to the tip of his nose, then to his lips, does pull a tiny smile from him; but as soon as he looks down, it fades away.

They don’t really need to talk. Harry has gotten his letter, of course; and they’ve read it together, by the soft glow of a candle; and of course, Harry has been accepted.

Between the two of them, he thinks he’s been the happiest. He could never find it in himself to be bitter towards his alpha for getting to realize his dreams, despite him not having the same opportunity. It’s society’s fault if they hadn’t even bothered sending him an admission letter; he’s an omega, after all, and in a world full of stray dogs, he has to fight not to get kicked in the guts. He remembers walking in on Harry standing near the fireplace; and the fire has been lit, crackling and tainting the air with the smell of burnt lumber. He remembers blinking in confusion, because it’s summer and having the fire going is useless.

But then he’d seen Harry’s Redmond College letter in his shaking hands, and it hadn’t taken long for him to put two and two together.

With his heart in his throat he had pounced on Harry and wrenched the letter out of Harry’s fingers, cheeks flushed in fury, eyes gone wide, frantic. He cradles the letter to his chest, fixing Harry with a stare full of disbelief.

“Are you mad?” he had shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking at the end, emotions overtaking him. “What are you doing? Why— _why?”_

Harry had blinked at him with his own wet eyes, then had taken him in his arms.

“I don’t want to be somewhere where you aren’t,” he has whispered shakily in the crook of his neck, the letter smashed between their chest. 

“You’re mad,” he has repeated angrily, tears leaking steadily out of his eyelids. “You’re not to sacrifice your dreams for me — I won’t allow it. We’ll find a way,” he had nodded, convinced of something that kept siring doubts in his heart. “We’ll write everyday.”

The memory of this moment haunts him, makes him want to throw up from time to time — but he’s convinced they’ll make it work. The city isn’t all that far, and sharing letters will be sweet. He’s always read in novels about two main characters writing their loves to each other, despite being on the opposite ends of the world; and he likes that he’ll be able to send his sentiments to Harry, that he’ll get to turn his love into words.

_But it’d be better if you could hug him whenever you wanted, and kiss him whenever your heart desired._

He hates that his inner voice is always right.

  
  


-

  
  


Tree boughs just out from the sides of the road, the bottom of tree trunks cocooned by pillows of poplar leaves. The sky is bright blue, the clouds creeping close to the mountain tops like birds near the woods canopy. The sun filters through empty patches in the leaves, and birds chirp from their branches. He gazes at the cardinals, smiling softly as their bright red colour stands out like a sore thumb. Plum and spruce trees have changed shapes since the first time he’s met them, making the trip from the train station down to Green Gables. At one point they take the bridge that goes over the Lake of Shining Waters. He giggles to himself as he’s met, once again, with the sight of wild plum trees leaning out from the bank, their boughs now grazing the water as opposed to several months ago when they were hovering just above the versatile surface. If they strain their ears, the faithful symphony of frogs and dragonflies emerge from the marsh.

Harry leans down to whisper in his ear. “What are you giggling about?” he asks, voice fond.

He glances at his alpha, leaning his temple on Harry’s shoulder.

“Did you know I’ve dubbed that place the Lake of Shining Waters?”

Harry raises an eyebrow, glancing around, fingers holding the reins steady. Then he beams. “It sounds so much better than Barry’s Bond, that’s for sure.”

He hums, agreeing. “I can’t wait to see the White Way of Delight again.”

He can especially picture Harry kissing him while cherry blossoms fly all around them, creating a layer of unconventional snow. The buggy enters the shadows of fir and maple trees, and it doesn’t take long for them to round a curve and enter the Avenue.

“So that’s the White Way of Delight?” Harry wonders, already knowing the answer. He nods and presses a kiss against Harry’s cheek, finding it in his heart to push away his sadness, and enjoy the last few hours he has with Harry.

The White Way of Delight sends them into an alternate universe, the trees planted close to one another so that their white leaves create an archway over them. He blinks, confused, as at one point Harry slows down the buggy until Belle stops completely.

“Harry?” he tilts his head, blinking in stupor as Harry angles his body towards him, taking his hands between his larger, bigger ones. There’s a soft smile on the alpha’s face, eyes shining even though they’re bathing in an ethereal purplish-white glow. “Is everything alright?” he asks, blushing as Harry brings their hands to his lips and kisses the back of them.

“I just wanted to give you something,” he admits, reaching in his back pocket and taking from it, a square little box. “And the White Way of Delight certainly is perfect to confess just how much I cherish you.”

He takes the box with curious, shaky fingers, and opens it. A cherry blossom falls between them.

Inside the box, there’s a ring. His eyes widen, his heart speeding up.

“It’s a promise ring,” Harry tells him, taking the jewel from its velvety cushion. “A promise from me to you that I will always come back to you, no matter what.”

He gasps softly, a tear sliding down his cheek. As he takes the ring, caressing its soft, cool metal, he feels his heart grow in size. Inside the ring, HL is engraved, with ‘ _always’_ underneath it. He begins to sob and he leans his forehead against Harry’s chest, letting himself be cuddled.

“Will— will you put it on me?” he breathes out, holding the ring between them. Harry kisses it before taking it, then slides it on his middle finger, bringing, this time, his hand up to his lips.

 _I love you,_ he thinks, tilting his head, asking for a kiss on his lips; and he soaks up the feeling so that he’ll never forget it. 

  
  


-

Harry takes the train to Kingsport, Nova Scotia, at noon.

When the alpha boards it, he feels a lot as if his heart had been cut in two, one half boarding alongside Harry. He holds in the tears until white, prominent clouds of condensed water rise into the sky from the smokestack, and the train drives away.

He struggles driving the buggy back to Green Gables, but he manages it; though he wishes the wooden thing would toppled over and send him into the Lake of Shining Waters. Maybe the cold water would snap him out of his sorrow; he will see Harry again in a few months, and they will exchange letters; there’s no need for tears.

But even though he tries to convince himself that, the moment he arrives at Green Gables, he falls to his knees, and weeps.

  
  


-

  
  


A week goes by without Harry, and he finds that he fares rather well. The ring the alpha has given him helps a great deal; it brings back memories of tender moments that help squash the heaviness in his heart.

He’s tried writing a letter to Harry, but the words won’t come out; they get stuck in his throat, almost choking him from how hard they squeeze. More than once he has balled up the blank sheet in front of him, and has thrown it against the wall, groaning in frustration.

He’s always been good with words, but he finds it ironic how it’s when he needs them the most that he can’t muster a single sentence.

He knows Joyce and David have tried cheering him up, in their own little way. Joyce would bake his favourite dessert, lemon meringue pie, and David would always come home with a bouquet of fresh flowers. He appreciates everything they do to help him, but he’s been left with a gaping wound, and it isn’t about to close anytime soon.

He still has the key to Harry’s house, and often he goes there to bask in the memories he’s created with the alpha. He’d sleep in the bed whose sheets still smell like the alpha, and he’d spend hours on end reading books after books; his hunger for knowledge knows no limit, and isn’t altered by his aching heart, or the disappointment that came with being ostracized from his dreams.

He’s tending to Belle when he spots someone waiting by the fence. He wipes his wet hands on a cloth and walks up to them, adjusting his red bow and soothing out his shirt. It’s a woman dressed in a gorgeous, long red dress, the sun making the gold details shaped into flowers and leaves glisten. Her hat is decorated with long feathers, and her raven-black hair rests on her bosom in a perfect braid.

“Good morning,” he smiles, removing the latch and opening the fence. “Please, come in. May I help you?”

She smiles, showing off her perfect white teeth. “I’m looking for Louis Tomlinson.”

He blinks, taken aback, beginning to walk to the house, the stranger following him. Her heeled boots make clicking sounds against the ground. “Speaking,” he answers, wiping his boots on the door mat, his eyes on her. When he finds a beaming smile on her face, he grows slightly suspicious of who she might be and why she’d want to talk to him.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, reaching out to shake his hand. “I have some good news for you, though I think it’d be best to take this conversation inside.”

Joyce looks up from where she is sitting by the window, knitting. She looks the stranger up and down and stands up, smoothing out the creases in her skirt. “Good morning,” she frowns, looking at him in barely concealed confusion. He holds back from shaking his head. Joyce used to be a lot more discreet.

“I’m sorry to bother you on this fine morning,” the woman laughs, her grey eyes sparkling. “I am a teacher at Redmond College, Danielle Smith.”

His lips part in surprise, and he lets his body drop down on one of the settees, staring at her in awe. _An omega teacher at Redmond College?_ It sounds close to impossible; and yet one is sitting several meters away from him.

“I’ll make some tea,” Joyce announces, walking to the kitchen, not without looking back, eyes full of hope.

Mrs. Smith smiles after Joyce, then turns to him. “I come bearing good news,” she says, hands folded over her lap. “Louis,” she sighs, her eyes turning apologetic, and dread fills him up. If she’s come all the way from Nova Scotia to tell him he’s been refused, he’s not sure he’ll be able to bear it. “I would like to offer my deepest apologies for your admission letter getting lost. You see, yours, alongside a few others, have gotten lost. This is why I’ve come over myself to tell you that you’ve been accepted to Redmond College.”

A teacup shatters in the back, and Joyce appears in the doorway, her hands on her mouth. He blinks several times and looks at her for guidance, unable to make sense of the words; has Mrs. Smith just told him he’s been accepted to Redmond College? He feels arms wrap around his body, and Joyce’s scent fills his nostrils. _What?_ He’s frozen, wide eyes on the beaming teacher, expecting for her to tell him she’s kidding and he hasn’t been accepted. But nothing of the sort happens; instead, Joyce hugs him tight, and Mrs. Smith softens, understanding.

“I don’t— I don’t—,” he chokes out, bringing a hand to his lips. “Is this for real?” he breathes out, his heart pounding against his rib cage.

“Why don’t you check for yourself?” she smiles, reaching into her handbag and taking a beige envelope from it. “Since the first one got lost, a second copy has been made.”

His fingers shake as he grabs the envelope, his name, _Louis William Tomlinson_ written across it; and gently opens it, careful not to rip anything. The folded sheet inside is soft to the touch, and smells like fresh paper and juvenile ink.

He opens it and begins to read, a loud son escaping his lips and tears gushing out of his eyes. Joyce tightens her grip around him, swaying left to right as his body spasms. 

  
  


_Green Gables, Avonlea,_

_Aug. 15, 1875._

_Redmond College,_

_Louis William Tomlinson_

_has passed examinations which satisfy the requirements for admission to the B.A English Class of Redmond College._

_Henry W. James,_

_President._   
  


-

For the first time since knowing David, he sees the alpha cries. 

The cherry-tree still lies down the track, white blooms littering the dark ground. He looks at it over David’s shoulder, squeezing the alpha’s middle before stepping back. Then, he smiles wetly at Joyce and takes her in his arms.

“You be careful, alright?” she mutters in his neck, doing a much better job at keeping her tears at bay. He chuckles and nods, fingers tightening around his brand new carpet bag. It’s heavy with clothes and books, but it’s a reassuring weight; it grounds him to the earth, and avoids him flying up the sky from happiness.

The stationmaster is chewing on a toothpick as he goes to sit at the shingles, putting his carpet bag down, folding his hands over his lap. He waves at David and Joyce as they go up into the buggy and does the drive back to Green Gables; they’ve agreed they would leave him to wait for the train alone, to avoid too tearful a moment.

The stationmaster comes out, and narrows his eyes at him.

“You sure you don’t wanna sit in the omega’s waiting room?” he drawls out, straightening up his hat. Louis smiles fondly. 

“No, thank you,” he answers, focusing his attention on the oxford ragworts jutting out into the metal tracks. “I find that the outside provides a lot more scope for the imagination.”

He holds back from laughing as the stationmaster frowns, getting a sense of déjà-vu but unable to pinpoint when. With a shrug, and smelling strongly of tobacco, the alpha goes back inside the station house.

With a fond chuckle, he waits for the train by reading one of his favourite books; _Jane Eyre._ The breeze is soft against his skin, and the air sweet from fresh grass and hope. When he hears the whistle of the train in the distance, a cardinal comes to rest next to him on the worn-out wood of the shingles. He spends several seconds looking at it, enjoying how such a little creature represents perfectly the concept of freedom. The train stops in front of him; the door opens. With a breathless gasp of apprehension, he closes the book and slides it into his bag.

_“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will.”_

He hasn't tasted the sweetness of independency, at least not yet; so in the meantime, he is a cardinal; and he’s about to unfold his wings for the first time.

At noon, he boards the train to Kingsport, Nova Scotia.


End file.
